($3.00 


Singing Soldiers 


By 
JOHN J. NILEs 


I lustrated 


Through the songs of soldiers, 
particularly the negro soldiers, 
the very quality of, the emotions 
aroused by various phases of the 
war are poignantly revealed. Lieu- 
tenant Niles was an aviator all up 
andi down! the front, and behind 
it,{but he had been associated with 
music publishers and music was 
his great interest. Wherever he 
was he noted down the words and 
the melodies of songs. Those of the 
negroes were by far the best; they 
often rose out of such little inci- 
dents as the burial of an officer: 

“T’ve got a grave-diggin’ 
feelin’ in my heart.” 

He tells a series of experiences, 
each one of which—because that 
was his interest—is centred around 
a song. These songs are truly 
indigenous to the war. Nothing 
else could have created them, and 
~ nothing else could. so well express 
the war. They are original in 
melody and in words—absolutely 
the real thing. 


Charles Scribner’s Sons 


SINGING SOLDIERS 


SINGING SOLDIERS 


By 
JOHN J. NILES 


ILLUSTRATED BY 
MARGARET THORNILEY WILLIAMSON 


CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 
NEW YORK +» LONDON 
1927 


CopYRIGHT, 1927, By 
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 


Printed in the United States of America 


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AMERICAN NEGRO SOLDIERS 


WHO MADE 
THIS WRITING POSSIBLE 


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BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 


On my first trip to Paris as a member of the A. E. F. (it 
was in December, 1917) I ran onto a paper-bound volume 
of French war-songs by Monsieur Théodore Botrel, titled 
“Les Chants du Bivouac.” 

Monsieur Botrel, known to the French as “Chansonnier 
des Armées,”” had been commissioned by the Ministry of 
War, then headed by Millerand, to sing and recite certain 
songs and poems of a patriotic nature to the French soldiers. 
His book, “Les Chants:du Bivouac,” was a collection of 
these. The work contained more than a hundred pen illus- 
trations by Carlégle and a preface by a member of the Acadé- 
mie Frangais, Monsieur Maurice Barrés. At my hotel in 
the Rue Richelieu, just around the corner from the Rue St. 
Anne M. P. jail, I took “Les Chants du Bivouac” to the 
piano, and, with the help of a French aviator in our party, 
sang some of the songs. 

That night I decided to borrow M. Botrel’s idea and at- 
tempt a collection of United States Army war-songs—to 
make as nearly as possible an unexpurgated record of the 
words and to write off the tunes whenever I had time and 
music-score paper. My resolution at first was intended to 
include any songs sung by the soldiers of the United States 
Army, but the imagination of the white boys did not, as a 
rule, express itself in song. They went to Broadway for their 
music, contenting themselves with the ready-made rhymes 
and tunes of the professional song-writers—song-writers who 


for reasons best avoided now did not give up their royalty 
vil 


Vill BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 


checks for the chance to secure the safety of democracy at 
thirty-three dollars per month. 

After a little while I discovered that time, music-score 
paper, and original songs were rare. In fact, I was even be- 
ginning to lose interest in my musical diary, when we en- 
countered some negro troops. True, they sang some music- 
hall ditties—after all, those colored regiments were recruited 
from every corner of the United States—there were Harlem 
negroes, Texas negroes, negroes from south-side Chicago, 
negroes from North Carolina—negroes, as they so aptly 
said, “frum all over.” Usually, among the black troops, 
there were a few semi-professional musicians who did the 
music-hall stuff as we see it done nowadays in the black- 
and-tan cabarets and supper clubs. And then there were 
the others, the natural-born singers, usually from rural dis- 
tricts, who, prompted by hunger, wounds, homesickness, and 
the reaction to so many generations of suppression, sang the 
legend of the black man to tunes and harmonies they made 
up as they went along—tunes and harmonies ofttimes too 
subtle for my clumsy fingers and my improvised score paper. 

At last I had discovered something original—a kind of 
folk music, brought up to date and adapted to the war situ- 
ations—at the same time savoring of the haunting melodic 
value found in the negro music I had known as a boy in 
_ Kentucky. | 

In the early summer of 1918 I gave up recording the songs 
of white boys and began to put myself out of the way to 
find a chance to come in contact with the negro soldier, who, 
as far as possible, put a little music into everything he did, 
be it marching, digging, cooking, travelling, unloading ships, 
or any of the thousand and one jobs soldiers always have 
to do. The negro soldier not only had the mellow, resonant 


>> 


BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 1X 


vocal qualities so necessary in singing, but he had abandon 
and an emotional nature which, with his ability to drama- 
tize trivial situations, many times produced the most aftec- 
ting performances. 

My duty as a pilot in the United States Air Service took 
me by air and rail to practically every area occupied by 
American troops, and as I knew I would be encountering 
negroes wherever our soldiers were established, my musette 
bag always contained a piece of score-paper or something [| 
might hastily convert by drawing a few staffs and a clef. 

Whatever may be said for the negro as a fighting soldier, 
no one may gainsay him as a singing soldier, nor discount 
the fact that his music had some part in the success gained 
by our arms in the past war. 


The gathering and compiling of the matter in this volume 
covered a period of seven years. It is natural to suppose 
that I received advice and assistance from many sources. 
Mrs. Harriet Ayer Seymour, Mr. E. von der Goltz, Mr. 
Marshall Bartholomew, Mr. N. C. Page, Mr. Max Marks, 
Mr. Douglas Moore, Mr. O. B. Judson, and Mr. W. H. 
Handy, the ‘“‘Blues” authority, supplied me with technical, 
legal, and musical information. Lieutenant Lee Turner, an 
artilleryman, and Lieutenant J. Heath Brasselman, a ma- 
chine-gunner, both having made the war with the A. E. F., 
supplied me with military data, maps, and information, sup- 
plementing my own diaries. From Mr. Brian Brown’s book, 
“The Wisdom of the Hindus,” I have, with Mr. Brown’s 
permission, reprinted a verse of the “Bhagavad-Gita,” as 
translated from the Sanskrit by Sir Edwin Arnold. 

I have unconsciously taken so much from Mr. Pierre A. 
Bernard (Shastri), Nadia, India, of the Royal Asiatic Soct- 


X BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 


ety of Great Britain and Ireland, American Philological So- 
ciety, New York Academy of Science, etc., etc., that to him 
I am perhaps most indebted—not for music nor forgotten 
dates and places, but for an unlimited amount of encourage- 
ment and a better understanding of the fitness of things. 


Nyack, N. Y., November, 1926. 


LIST 


Going Home Song 

Whale Song : 
Don’t Close Dose Gates . 
Crap-Shootin’ Charley 
Diggin’ . 

I’m a Warrior . 

I Don’t Want to Go . 
Lordy, Turn Your Face . 
Good-bye, Tennessee . 
He’s a Burden-Bearer 

I Don’t Want Any More eee 
For I’se Weary 

Ole Ark 

Gimmie Song . 

Scratch . ; 

The Soldier Man Blues 
Deep-Sea Blues 

Chicken Butcher 

Jackass Song ; 
We Wish the Same to You 
Grave-Diggers . 

Ghost Song 

Jail House . 

Roll, Jordan, Roll . 

Long Gone . 

Pray for Forgiveness . 
Clean Clothes Song 
Destroyer Song 

Georgia . 


OF SONGS 


CHAPTER I 


HE first entry into my diary of War Music was made 
in Issoudun (Indre), France, where I had been sent 
with a detachment of American Aviation Cadets to 

study the art of flying. That winter of 1917-1918 we did 
very little work in the air—we dug trenches, latrines, and 
stood guard duty, for the Issoudun camp was not com- 
pleted. In fact, it was humorously referred to as the mud- 
diest hole in France, where flying was a promise. A camp 
newspaper known as the Plane News was being published 
“from time to time” —a newspaper on which I was serving 
as associate editor. One night in December, 1917, in the 
Plane News office, during one of our “after-taps copy-writ- 
ing sprees,” a cadet came in with a contribution which 
proved to be the verses of a song about “going home.” 
It wasn’t entirely original, but every verse told volumes of 
truth. In the fall of 1918, at a flying-field near Toul, I 
encountered some men who sang the same tune with a new 
set of verses, the earlier ones having disappeared. Their 
rhymes were about Air Service activities, but I did not 
consider them interesting enough to record. 

Here are seven verses of the song as it was sung in Issou- 
dun during the winter of 1917-1918—the first song I re- 
corded in my “Singing Soldiers” manuscript. 


I want to go home—I want to go home— 
The treatment is awful—the food is a joke— 
If you want to pass out, just come here and you'll croak. 
So, send me over the sea— 
I 


2 SINGING SOLDIERS 


GOING HOME SONG 


This melody is not entirely original—it reminds one faintly of such tunes as 
“Take me out to the ball game,”’ “The Bowery,” “ Yip I Yaddie I Yeh,” etc. 


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Oh, my, I’m _ too young to die, I want to go home. 


Where the Top Sergeants can’t get at me— 
Oh, my, I’m too young to die— 
I want to go home. 


I want to go home—I want to go home— 

I don’t want to go in the trenches no more— 
Where hand-grenades and whiz-bangs they roar. 
So send me over the sea, 

Where the Heinies they can’t get at me— 

Oh, my, I’m too young to die— 

I want to go home. 

I want to go home—I want to go home— 


It’s always a raining—the mud is knee-deep— 
The lice are so active, I never can sleep— 


SINGING SOLDIERS 


So send me over the sea, 

Where the Top Sergeants can’t get at me— 
Oh, my, I’m too young to die— 

I want to go home. 


I want to go home—I want to go home— 

The French girls use powder in place of “de l’eau”— 
I'm telling you straight, ’cause I happen to know— 
So send me over the sea— 

Where the wild women can’t get at me, 

Oh, my, I’m too young to die— 

I want to go home. 


I want to go home—I want to go home— 

The war ain’t so bad if you’re wearin’ a star— 
But bein’ a private don’t get you so far. 

So send me over the sea, 

Where the tin hats they can’t get at me— 

Oh, my, I’m too young to die— 

I want to go home. 


I want to go home—I want to go home— 

In place of a dinner they pass us out slum— 

My whole inner workings have gone on the bum— 
So send me over the sea, 

Where the Mess Sergeants can’t get at me— 

Oh, my, I’m too young to die— 

I want to go home. 


I want to go home—I want to go home— 

I don’t want to fly in a wiggly winged Sop— 
They act like a buzzard just ready to drop— 
So send me over the sea— 

Where the monitors can’t get at me— 

Oh, my, I’m too young to die— 

I want to go home. 


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SINGING SOLDIERS 5 


All of a sudden it was Christmas Eve. It seemed that 
we should celebrate. Most of the members of the Plane 
News staff were broke, but we pooled our francs—decided 
to buy a bottle of rum, a bottle of champagne, a few eggs, 
and steal a supply of milk and bread. Our celebration was 
planned to follow the musical performance of the evening, 
in which I had to appear playing accompaniments for a 
violinist. As soon as the show was over I was elected to 
buy the liquor and start the party. Oley, “the big bad 
Swede” (who was on duty at the German prison camp), 
spied me as I was returning from the canteen. | 

“Halt! Who goes there? Sing it out and make it quick.” 

“Why—why—hello, Oley—why—friend with a bottle.” 

“Pass, friend! Halt, bottle!” 

“Now look here, Oley, have a heart with that bottle. 
You wall-eyed liquor-guzzler, a hell of a lot of good you’re 
doin’ in this man’s army.” 

Oley was calculating with the keen eye of a professional 
drinker how much he could take bottoms up. 

“Think I can make it ?” 

He grasped the bottle with both hands—the uppermost 
marking the new low level. 

“Why, Oley, you rum-befuddled goovus, I’ll bet you don’t 
remember your orders.” We drank deep. We laughed loud. 
We slapped one another on the back—and shook hands. 
This drinking and slapping had been going on all evening— 
by midnight the guard would be in prime condition. 

It was Christmas Eve—Christmas Eve, 1917. Although 
the guards who walked post around the prison camp were 
separated from the details around the airplane hangars, they 
had the advantage of being nearer the little French canteen. 
Nearly all the liquor-laden boys had to pass the prison camp 


6 SINGING SOLDIERS 


—that’s how the prison guards did so much free drinking. 
The German prisoners hauled garbage and dug trenches. 
Some of them did K. P. in the cadets’ mess—calm-looking, 
blond fellows with little pill-box hats, who lived in a sepa- 
rate camp—guarded by a detail of French and Americans. 

It was Christmas Eve in the muddiest hole in France— 
The moon was full, and, shining through the leafless trees, 
cast an intricate pattern of black on the white of the snow- 
covered ground. 

Oley was on duty again from ten to twelve. He had just 
sampled a swig or two of “niggerhead” rum out of a bottle 
wrapped around with straw. It was my bottle—the first one 
hadn’t been nearly enough. 

“Ought to stick around, Jack, old walrus. The Heinies 
are goin’ to sing. They’ve been practising every night for 
some time. Ole Caspard says they is a famous piano-player 
among ’em; he leads ’em, and say, I think you’d like to hear 
"em. Don’t have no piano—got a little brass pipe—makes a 
noise like a peanut whistle. He starts ’em off and they do 
the rest.” 

It was near midnight when the prisoners actually began to 
sing. They had been permitted to move some of the tables 
from one end of their mess hall. Their audience numbered 
four: Caspard, the Corporal of the French Guard, one French 
private, Oley, the American Guard, and myself. We had 
been sitting outside the enclosure near a sentry-box, listen- 
ing to the D’Artagnan-like reminiscences of Caspard, when 
through the thin walls of the barracks came the kind of 
music one hears only in dreams: 


Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, 
Alles schlaft, einsam wacht 


SINGING SOLDIERS - 


Nur das traute Hochheilige Paar, 
Holder Knabe im lochtigen Haar, 
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh, 
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh. 


Had these men been our enemies? Were they really pris- 
oners of war? Were they the sullen, glum-looking fellows who 
hauled garbage and cleaned latrines? Had I been trans- 
ported by the rum? In my wildest imaginings, I had never 
conceived a more gloriously balanced group of male voices. 
I had listened to “Die Meistersinger,” to “Tristan,” to the 
King’s prayer and the accompanying choruses at the end of 
the first act of “Lohengrin.” I had sung “The Messiah,” 
“Elijah,” and “Judas Maccabeas,” but this—the singing of 
a simple carol—left me inarticulate. The tune was familiar— 
I had sung it as a boy: 


Silent night, holy night. 
All is calm, all is bright... . 


The others too were moved. I could see Oley’s face against 
the moonlight. The silly, drunken grin was gone. With his 
hands on the butt of his rifle (the bayonet end stuck down 
in the ground), he stood very still. The French private had 
deserted his sentry box—he had drawn nearer the prisoners’ 
barracks, so that he might not miss any of the singing. As 
the singers paused between two verses, Caspard spoke: 


Tiens ! quelles voix! 

Quelles pensées derriére ces voix! 

Ils pensent a leurs foyers— 

A leurs foyers la-bas en Allemagne— 

Comment moi, je pense 4 mon chez-moi qui était la-bas 4 
Soissons ! 

La guerre! La guerre! 


8 SINGING SOLDIERS 


He dug his heel viciously into the half-frozen mud and, 
pulling himself to his feet, began to walk up and down. His 
hands joined behind his back. His head dropped in medita- 


tion. And those voices again singing: 
Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht. 


One verse was sung so softly that we could scarcely hear it 
through the walls of the barracks. Were these men our ene- 
mies? Had the Sarajevo incident really made them so? Did 
unrestricted submarine warfare get us into this muddle? 
Perhaps it was the Lusitania! 1 wanted to cry out aloud 
against something that was all wrong. 

Caspard sat down beside me—he was an old man. His 
home in Soissons had been destroyed. The dash of the 
D’Artagnan was gone. He wept softly. Great God! what a 
situation! But what could we do about it? Nothing. We 
were caught in a grotesque, unromantic, unheroic, mechani- 
cal war. The only thing for us to do was to make the most of 
it—to laugh as long as we could laugh and save our tears for 
a crisis. All the while the prisoners were singing: 


Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, 


Alles schlaft, einsam wacht. 


I thought how far the singing of this almost divine carol had 
transcended the power of their arms. 


Nur das traute Hochheilige Paar, 
Holder Knabe im lochtigen Haar, 
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh, 
Schlaf in himmlischer Ruh. 


They later sang some livelier things—one about the wed- 
ding of grandmother and grandfather. But the others I 


SINGING SOLDIERS 9 


have forgotten against the glorious memory of the singing 
of “Silent Night.” 

All the talent in camp had been rehearsing for a black- 
face minstrel show, to be given Christmas night. I had 
been delegated by Captain Kearney to organize the show 
and see to the matters of production. We were to have a 
regular old style oleo with specialties, singing and dancing 
numbers, original ditties, local jokes, etc. Among the num- 
bers that missed fire was a song proposed to me by a driver 
in one of the Motor Transport outfits. Charley planned to 
open his act with a limerick. 


Now Jonah told the wildest tales— 
Of accidents in ships with sails— 
The worn-out wheeze 

Of the moon and the cheese— 

Of mutinies and man-eatin’ whales. 


Then he intended to “go into his number” (as the vaude- 
villians say). One of the boys in his outfit, a back-room-of- 
a-saloon pianist, had worked out a simply harmonized ac- 
companiment. They had borrowed their tunes from re- 
liable sources and manufactured the lyrics out of current 
lingo of the service. Jonah was a private in the United 
States Army. The song recounted the unfortunate details 
of his mortal combat with the whale. The legendary Jonah 
yarn got into the song only by supplying the names of the 
dramatis persone. 


Now gather round me, brothers, and to you I’ll tell a tale, 

About a soldier-boy named Jonah and a great sea-going 
whale— 

How the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked— 

And the whale said, well I will be shucked— 

Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. 


10 SINGING SOLDIERS 


WHALE SONG 


This ane boy had gone to reliable Irish sources for his melody. 


rae 
that’s the sto-ry of Jo-nah and the great sea - go - in? whale. 


Now Jonah pulled the bolt back and he shoved home a 
shell, 

And said, I’ll blow this bloody whale all the way to Hell, 

But the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked 

And the whale said well I will be shucked— 

Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. 


Then Jonah got himself a piece of field-artillery, 

And said he’d shoot a hole into that whale’s great big belly— 
But the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked 

And the whale said well I will be shucked, 

Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. 


Oh, Jonah got a gas-bomb and said this is the nuts, 

Pll polish off this monster, cause I surely hate his guts, 

But the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked 

And the whale said well I will be shucked, 

Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. 


SINGING SOLDIERS II 


Then Jonah got a minnenwafer right from Germany 

And said of that terrific whale I’ll surely rid the sea. 

But the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked 

And the whale said well I will be shucked, 

Oh, that’s the storv of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. 


Now from the cook shack Jonah took a mess pail full of bill, 
He thot he’d try to poison what he couldn’t kill, 

But the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked 

And the whale said well I will be shucked, 

Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. 


Then Jonah threw a mills bomb right at the monster’s head, 
The mills bomb ricocheted and cooled Jonah off instead— 
Cause the whale he bucked and Jonah ducked 

And the whale said well I will be shucked, 

Oh, that’s the story of Jonah and the great sea-going whale. 


But Charley lost his nerve at the last moment and in 
spite of a generous issue of milk-punch (which was go per 
cent punch), he couldn’t make up his mind to go on. The 
minstrel show had to function without the Jonah song. 
One night in the Plane News office, Charley sang fifteen 
verses of his song to me—some of them were deliciously 
obscene. The seven verses recorded were for public per- 
formance, where a mixed audience might be encountered. 

We ran into strange difficulties with our Christmas per- 
formance. The use of one of the welfare organizations’ 
buildings was a point in question. The welfare secretary 
(a male person of past middle-age) told me at first that 
we positively could not use the building. He didn’t mind 
musical evenings, where authorized welfare workers, etc., 
performed, but black-face minstrels—no! Sometime be- 
fore, a similar show had been given and some of the per- 


12 SINGING SOLDIERS 


formers had got very drunk—it was too much of a disgrace 
to be repeated. I passed this yarn on to Captain Kearney 
and Colonel Kilner—you can imagine what they told me I 
might do if I found it necessary. 

Needless to say, we used the welfare workers’ building, 
and through an over-consumption of the aforementioned 
milk-punch, several of the performers did their stuff in a 
marvellously abandoned manner—one of them passing out 
during the performance—much to the amusement of the 
audience. 

Most of the welfare workers associated with the United 
States Army—Protestants, Catholics, and Jews—brought 
their theological ideas of priesthood along with them as part 
of their baggage. These dispensers of “universal truth” 
couldn’t forget their heaven-sent responsibility of saving 
the world—not even long enough to let a bunch of home- 
sick soldiers have a fine, large, and very harmless evening. 
Some school-teaching, mystic practices of theology had 
armed them with what it took to “save the world”—but 
few did I meet who were able to solve their own problems 
or to live their own lives in a manner that brought mauee 
acclaim from themselves or from others. 


CHAPTER II 
HE “Going Home Song” and the song about Jonah 


and the whale were the only bits of music recorded in 

1917. 
Early in 1918 I went with a detachment of Americans to 
Foggia, Italy, where we learned to fly French Farmans and 
Italian Colombos under the direction of Italian instructors. 


TWENTY-EIGHT-METRE NIEUPORT 


From Italy we were sent north to the Second Aviation In- 
struction Centre at Tours, France, where we flew the Cau- 
dron tractors with Anzani radial motors in them. Several 
of our boys were disabled flying the Caudrons, but no one 
was killed. From Tours we went back to Issoudun. The 
camp had changed some; there were many new faces—and 
many new crosses in the graveyard. At Issoudun we flew 
Nieuports; first the 23-metre ones with 80 horse-powered 
13 


14 SINGING SOLDIERS 


motors, then 18-metre ones, and, finally, the 15-metre ones 
with 120 horse-power. It was our first experience with rotary 
motors. It was also our first experience with ships requiring 
delicate control. Many of our good boys came down—we 
buried some of the most promising men in the outfit. Mys- 
terious things happened at Issoudun—one captain, who was 
a member of the local committee to investigate crashes, was 
sent on one hour’s notice to a camp in another part of France 
because he seemed to be alarmed about the death-rate. A 
satisfactory reason was never given for the flourishing con- 
dition of the graveyard. 

From Issoudun I was sent to Orly (Seine), a flying-field 
not far from Paris. It was known in the A. E. F. as AAAP 
No. 1 (American Aviation Acceptance Park No. 1). From 
Orly we flew to nearly all the flying-fields in France, deliver- 
ing all kinds of ships—fighting ships, school ships, observa- 
tion ships, gunnery-practice ships, etc. In flying to the 
aviation base nearest the front, Collombey les Belles, we 
made one stop—Vinets—a gas and oil filling-station, where 
we could stop over night if we found it too dark or too foggy 
to make Collombey les Belles. One night at Collombey les 
Belles, while at mess, an officer (detailed to technical re- 
search) asked me if I would like to accompany him in a trip 
up nearer the front to recover the remains of a German 
plane that had just fallen a while before dark. We should 
be able to make the trip and get back to the Toul Station in 
time to catch the midnight train to Orly. 

After two hours and a half of dragging along traffic- 
crowded roads, we arrived at the scene of the crash. In 
spite of the guard placed on the German ship, many things 
valuable from a technical point of view were gone—the 
souvenir collectors had done their stuff. The pilot had been 


SINGING SOLDIERS 15 


taken in a dying condition to a near-by field hospital. My 
friend the technical expert decided to see if he could gain 
any information from him, so we visited the roadside hos- 
pital. It was nearly dawn when we started back. During 
the night a medical corporal, who had a rare sense of narra- 
tion, related some of his experiences to me. Among them, 
he told of a negro who had died singing snatches of a song. 


The black boy had been brought into the hospital in a semi- 
delirious condition—he believed himself still able to drive 
his team of mules. He wanted to leave the hospital and 
return to his ammunition train. He resisted the efforts of 
the stretcher-bearers and the medics. 

“Lay off me, white man—lay off, I tells you, lay off me. 
I wants to go back—I wants to git out o’ here.” 

“Shut up, shut up” (a voice from the other end of the 
tent), “you can’t go anywhere. Hell, you can’t even walk.” 

“ All de same I knows what I wants.” 

“Say, medic, pipe ’im down. Give ’im a shot in “is arm.” 

“Aw, let ’im alone, he ain’t botherin’ you.” 

“The hell he ain’t.” 

“T wants to go back, I duz. I wants to git out o’ here.” 
The medical corporal turned to the colored boy. 


16 SINGING SOLDIERS 


“So you want to go up where they’re fightin’, eh? One 
would think you’d had enough.” 

“I ain’t botherin’ so much ’bout de fightin’, Mr. Medical 
Man; what I wants to do is to go where dat dead sergeant 
16a) 

An 1rritable white boy with a bandaged head had listened 
to as much as he could. 

“Well, you'll go and if you’re not careful, you’ll go in a 
whale of a hurry. He’s been tellin’ us he killed ’is sergeant.” 

“Oh Lordy, oh Lordy” (his voice was not much more 
than a whisper), “I asks you—I asks you to smite me down 
if I did it a purpose.” 

The white boy with the bandaged head was seized with 
something akin to terror. 

“Steady now, black boy, steady, don’t go havin’ no 
sleight-o’-hand conversations with God ’bout knockin’ you 
off. He might do a good job and knock me off with you. 
Every time I stop thinkin’ ’bout anything else, I can see a 
Heinie, writin’ so peaceful-like in a little book, just before 
my grenade hit ’im.” 

The medical corporal listened as he administered to the 


colored boy—listened carefully—he’d use this talk in a play 


some time—the medical corporal administering to the col- 
ored boy as gently as he could, considering the number of 
men to be cared for. In fact, individual care was almost im- 
possible (and the wounded were wise enough to know this), 
for there were rows and rows of cots and improvised beds 
on which Frenchmen, Americans, and Germans lay tossing 
and suffering from wounds that grew more feverish, more 
unbearable as the night wore slowly on. There were men 
sitting on the ground or on rough benches, leaning against 
walls. Their eyes were bandaged—they had been gassed. 


SINGING SOLDIERS ig? 


They were waiting turns to be evacuated. Those field hos- 
pitals and dressing stations—God ! 

Friend, did you ever smell a field hospital—after it had 
stood all day under a blistering summer sun—with newly 
turned mounds all about—where the burial squads had 
stowed the festering dead of 
a rapidly retreating enemy— | 

where this year’s barrages i 
have burrowed into the tor- 


the half-rotten contents of ) 
last year’s graves—where the fa 
sweaty, unwashed smell of sick YJ 

and wounded men is strangely ee 
blended with the odor of dis- 
infectants and chemicals — 
where the blazing sun has 
warmed the newly clustered 
graves until they almost seem 
to breathe? 

This outfit was housed in 
the remains of a roadside hotel, 
a barn, part of a church, and 
the near-by parish house. 
The non-coms had moved their cots to a temporary shelter 
some distance away for the benefit of quiet. When all the 
other spaces were occupied by wounded, the non-coms’ 
quarters were taken by the overflow. 

At one end of the shelter two grievously wounded Ger- 
mans carried on delirious conversations with friends back 
home. The colored boy near by had propped up his head. 
Between the singing of a line or two of a song he had brought 


tured countryside and spewed le iS 
oh 


A CATCH OF HEINE SOUVENIRS 


18 SINGING SOLDIERS 


from the Southland, he would declare again his desire to go 
back to the sergeant who was dead. Next lay the white boy 
who saw visions of the German writing in the little book. 
And beyond him a medical corporal, whose body ached— 
whose temples throbbed—whose throat was dry. He could- 
n't seem to remember how long it had been since he had 


THE COLORED BOY WAS A WAGONER 


slept—really slept. He tried to think how wonderful it 
would be when the classes assembled at school in the fall. 
He listened to the colored boy—he’d remember what that 
fellow said and use it in one of the college plays some time. 

The colored boy was a wagoner—a driver in a supply 
train. They had been passing over shell-swept roads with 
unusually good luck—then the Boche treated them to a 
bombing raid. The supply train was stopped—all hands lay 
flat on the roadside. One of the teams became excited—it 


SINGING SOLDIERS 19 


wouldn’t do to have a wagon in the ditch. There was a call 
for help. Under a sergeant’s direction, the wagoner lay where 
he was—the sergeant would see what could be done. He 
hadn’t more than stood up when a bomb struck the road. 
It was one of those instantaneous types of aerial bombs that 
burst about two feet off the ground. One lying flat might 
miss the dispersion of the burst. The sergeant was cut in 
two. Other bombs fell. The wagoner was wounded, but he 
blamed himself for the death of the sergeant. 

The medical corporal had another hour in which he might 
rest. He lighted a candle, made sure the shelter flaps were 
closed, and produced a stub of lead-pencil. The negro boy 
spoke less of the dead sergeant. He was singing ever so 
softly: 


Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in, 
Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in. 


“Say, friend, can’t you do something fur ’im? The shine, 
I mean. He’s gone to singin’. An’ what de hell does ‘unser’ 
mean? One of the Boche’s been blabbin’ about ‘unser’ till 
I’m about to go dippy myself. ‘Unser, unser’—Jesus, will 
he ever die and be quiet!” 

The medical corporal was writing: 


Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— 
Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— 
Peter, take your hand off de handle ob dat gate— 
’Cause I’m sure comin’ in— 

Jesus said he wouldn’t mind if I was a little late, 
When he pardoned me my sins. 


The tune was simple—he’d write down what he could of it. 
Why hadn’t people invented a shorthand system for music ? 
Musicians were behind time. 


20 SINGING SOLDIERS 


Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— 

Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— 

Some folks says dat heaven is a white man’s place, 

But I’m sure comin’ in— 

Good Book says it doesn’t matter ’bout de color ob 
your face, 

So I’m sure comin’ in. 


The tune was simple—he’d take down what he could of it 
and sing the rest to some one who could help him write it 
off according to Hoyle. Funny about not having shorthand 
for music. 

“Unser Heiliger Gott—warum—warum habe ich? Wa- 
rum ?”’ 

“Listen, pardner, hey you, medic, won’t you, for God’s 
sake, for God’s sake, do something fur the poor Heinie bas- 
tard? Give ’im a shot in ’is arm, er give me one.” 

Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— 

Don’t close dose gates, ’cause I’m sure comin’ in— 
Toward morning the colored boy was quiet—and the Ger- 
man’s God seemed to have answered his prayer, too. 

Some of the most homesick days I ever experienced were 
spent at Orly (Seine), and I’ve never been able to tell why. 
It was a very romantic piece of French countryside. A few 
miles away, at Choisy le Roi, during the Reign of Terror, 
revolutionists had destroyed pa'aces and chateaux belong- 
ing to the Louis,—palaces and chateaux, where kings and 
courtiers had disported themselves in the most dissolute 
manner. West of our camp ran the Fontainebleau road, the 
road that connected the palace in Fontainebleau with the 
palaces in Paris. A few miles farther west lay Versailles, 
which from the air looked like a fairy garden—a fairy gar- 
den, indeed, with its palaces and its cross-shaped lake. 


SINGING SOLDIERS 21 


DON’T CLOSE DOSE GATES 
ARRANGED BY J. J. N. 


ee 


Don’t close dose __ gates, ‘cause I’m _ sure 


ee 
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4 ¥ A 4 ee A, r 

9 Wee Ge 
L@.\? 4 (eee ee eee] ag? Pia i 
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i 
Da ai aa = 5 


22 SINGING SOLDIERS 


Verse 
SS Te RED BRIN Be 


"Gy enee Maa eee a a ee 
Pe-ter, take yourhand off de han-dle ob dat gate, *Cause 


4e}? a —— r= Ps} 
| A DORE i RE = . oP ROSS: 
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‘far De Ae eS ry) Le ty Bitte WR asks eee Ao 
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I’m sure com-in’ in Je-sus said he would-n’t mind if I 
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Cr : a BMPR tee BER aL Ra TS 
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SINGING SOLDIERS 23 


We had some lively dances at Orly every now and then, 
but even so, it was a lonesome place. Fortunately we were 
away most of the time—either flying to some distant camp 
or waiting for flying weather, because bright, clear days were 
rare in the fall of 1918. During a protracted rainy spell we 
made friends with the officers of a colored labor battalion, 
engaged in repairing the Fontainebleau road. Their officers, 
welcome guests at Sanger Hall, had promised to show off 
the battalion in a drawing-room set and thereby prove their 
superiority over the average run of low-type gravel haulers 
and road menders. The performance would be staged at 
Sanger Hall. 

Sanger Hall was a gift to the officers at the Orly Flying 
Field. Captain Sanger had lost his life while flying at Orly. 
His wife, to honor her husband, had equipped a barracks 
in a most luxuriant manner, named it “Sanger Hall,” and 
opened its doors as a free club-house. It was like stumbling 
upon a Taj Mahal in the middle of the desert—divans, fire- 
places, a library, piano, soft carpets, dim lights, little cur- 
tains puckered up at the windows—what a place was 
Sanger Hall! 

The show opened with a crap game. One of the players 
was more dishonest than players usually are in army games 
of chance. 

“Stop dices !”’ 

“How you git dis stop?” 

“You’re holdin’. Pass dose dices up agin yonder blanket. 
I ain’t goin’ to see no dice-holdin’ high-brown spendin’ my 
dicks franc notes.” (Fr. dix.) 

“Say, lad, you’re talkin’ purty hard, ain’t you?” 

“Hard? Did you say hard?* Why, boy, do you know 
who I am? Well, I'll tell you. Dey is only. two real hard 


* Besides being hard, this colored boy had blue lips and boasted of a poisonous bite. 


SPULZUID BO YO Uy} moss 4) 
= >awvUu snok 38 nok ee 24341) 


*hays0y. MYoous dos> 


24 


ee 


SINGING SOLDIERS 26 


men in dis here United States Army of America, and fo’ 
God, I’se both ob ’em.” 

The crap game was an overture to a scene involving a 
flying officer and a negro soldier. The flying officer (this 
part was played by one of the colored boys) had just in- 
vited a number of enlisted men to ride with him. One col- 
ored boy among those invited refused to ride. 

“Nossar, I declines de honor. I don’t mean to hab my 
friends standin’ round, singin’, ‘Hallelujah, hardly knew 
you. Nossar. I believe you is, sure God, a regular pilot. 
But I’ve seen dose gasoline engines stop before now. It ’ud 
jes’ be my luck to hab to git out an’ crank when we wuz 
"bout 2,000 miles up. Nossar, I don’t crank no airship while 
it’s aflyin’. Not me!” 

This scene was very much applauded, particularly by the 
pilots who were tight. “And now, gentlemen, may we pre- 
sent Mr. Mooney Dukes, assisted by us all, singin’ ‘Hoochey, 
Coochey Hilda’ and ‘Crap-Shootin’ Charley’.” 

The song about Hilda was reminiscent of a thousand 
“blues songs” where a male is pleading for the privilege of 
returning to some happy home he had deserted, for reasons 
he hoped no one would remember. 


Hoochey, Coochey Hilda, won’t you take me back— 

I knows I’se done you wrong— 

I come to France to make de Kaiser ball de Jack— 
Now you jus’ got to take.me back. 

Hoochey, Coochey Hilda, I knows I’se done you wrong. 


This song, in spite of its many amusing verses, failed, because 
the boy at the piano banged so that the singing became inciden- 
tal to the accompaniment. As an encore to the “‘Hoochey, 
Coochey’’song, the boys sang five couplets (in a quasi-quartette 
form) to the famous old tune of “Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.” 


SINGING SOLDIERS 


Goin’ to lay myself down on de railroad track, 
An’ let de steam cars roll over my big black back. 
(Then follows the usual two-line chorus.) 


French cannon-ball goes so goddam fast, 
Can’t never count de cars as they wizzes past, 
(Chorus.) 


THE SINGING BECAME INCIDENTAL TO THE ACCOMPANIMENT 


Goin’ to let my insurance policy lapse, 
Cause I can’t spend no jack after de bugler plays taps, 
(Chorus.) 


German throwed down his gun and started in cryin’, 
And took off fer Berlin a Hell firin’, yellin’, and flyin’, 
(Chorus.) 


Goin’ to git myself a French gal wid nice smooth flanks, 
An’ tell her de blacks is de best 0’ de Yanks, 
(Chorus.) 


SINGING SOLDIERS 27 


The crashing hit of the evening came later when they sang 
the song about “Crap-Shootin’ Charley.” The “Hilda” 
song had warmed up Mooney’s voice. After a whispered 
conversation with the boy at the piano, they began: 


All I needs is twenty francs, 

Come on, bones, and treat me nice. 
Papa’s lookin’ for a natural, 

Roll ’em, soldier, roll dose dice. 


O, crap-shootin’ Charley, where did you git yo’ name? 
Why, from takin’ all de centimes in de ole crap game. 
O, crap-shootin’ Charley, where did you git yo’ name? 
Why, from takin’ all de centimes in de ole crap game. 


How they did roll their eyes and shake their supple bodies 
to the rhythm of that tune! The accompanist had been 
“piped down” —the singers had lost their self-consciousness. 
They began to loosen up and really sing. The piano droned 
a plaintive repetition of fifths that made an admirable back- 
ground for the voices. The speed of the tune increased. The 
refrains were sung more softly. 


Service record’s gone, sure ’nuff— 
Come on, bones, and treat me nice. 
Phoebe, Phoebe, do your stuff— 
Roll ’em, soldier, roll dose dice. 


O, crap-shootin’ Charley, where did you git your name? 
Why, from takin’ all de centimes in de ole crap game. 
Crap-shootin’ Charley, where did you git your name? 
Why, from takin’ all de centimes in de ole crap game. 


The drumming of the piano became less like music. It was 
a throbbing something that seemed to mark out the rhyth- 
mic pattern on which the tune was hung. I was reminded 
of the crap-shooting performances of the past—the Issoudun 
crap games—ten thousand francs on the floor at one time— 


28 SINGING SOLDIERS 


men fading one another for piles of uncounted one and two 
franc paper bills; crap games back in Kentucky—on court 
days—on election days—on the guard decks of steamboats 
—in the shade of a pile of merchandise on the levee. 

The fire had burned low. I began to be terribly homesick. 
The recurring fifths in the accompaniment were getting un- 
der my skin. 

Lost my hind leg in a poker game— 
Come on, bones, and treat me nice. 


Pasteboard gamblin’s too damn tame— 
Roll ’em, soldier, roll dose dice. 


The effect was intended to be humorous. 


Have to make dat awful box-car point— 

Come on, bones, and treat me nice. 

If de freights don’t soon ride, I’ll clean out dis joint— 
Roll ’em, soldier, roll dose dice. 


The fire burned very low. I heard the music through drowsy 
ears. A strange sense of detachment came over me. I wasa lit- 
tle boy again in a straw jimmie hat and bare feet. My father 
and I were in the Lee Line Steamboat offices. He held me 
by the hand. Men in broad black hats and moustaches were 
talking about McKinley, Bryan, Coxie’s army. Robert, the 
colored boy who brushed out and shined the cuspidors, was 
showing me how to make a line fast to a Junie bug’s leg. 
The bug escaped us. Robert spat into his hand and struck 
the spittle with his black forefinger, so that the path of the 
spittle might direct us in discovering the lost bug. McKin- 
ley—Bryan—free silver—Coxie’s army—my father—the 
levee with its endless piles of merchandise—the lost Junie 
bug. Was I homesick! 


_ Crap-shootin’ Charley, where did you git your name? 
Why, from takin’ all de centimes in de ole crap game. 


7 ee. 
ee a 


SINGING SOLDIERS 29 


CRAP-SHOOTIN’ CHARLEY 
ARRANGED BY J. J. N. 


All I needs is twenty francs, Come on,bones,and treat me nice. Oh 
ha raat! oy, noe en OC RA Ee US wa Re 


moe 
L\Se A iar te a Bea <i re 


a oe gt A, 


pa-pa’s look - in’ for anat-ural; = Roll ’em, sol-dier, roll dose dice. 


Chorus 


30 SINGING SOLDIERS 


tak -in’ all de cen-times in de ole crap game. 


( 

7 EP?-EFRAETRfe.”_ TS ee ee I et 
Da or RR patent ee 
oh 
i} a 5 = [4 ——} 

S72 -3— L—& - - 

= 5 ec, A, 

Se 
Nee 


Next day (another one of those soggy fall days when we 
couldn’t see the “wind sock”’ for the fog), I had mess with 
some of the officers of the labor battalion. They had told 
me of a working-song their boys sang (somehow, they seemed 
to know that I was keeping a diary of soldier music). The 
mess was excellent. One of their cooks had been a chef in 
an American dining-car. Later I listened in on the working- 
song. Through a copying of notes I have lost the music to 
the verses. Otherwise the song is quite complete. The chief 
singer proved to be “Mr. Mooney Dukes,” the soloist of the 
night before. He swung a pick and sang in the exact rhythm 
of his bodily movements. 

Diggin’, diggin’, diggin’ in Kentucky— | 
Diggin’ in Tennessee; diggin’ in North Carolina— 
Diggin’ in France. 


There were six measures of music to the refrains. Of the 
many verses Mooney sang, I have recorded only three. 


Slumgullion in de oven— 

Coffee in de pot— 

Snap yourself up into line 

An’ git it while it’s hot. 
(Diggin’, etc.) 


SINGING SOLDIERS 31 


THE MIGHTY MOONEY WITH HIS PICK 


Sharpen up my shovel, 
And shine up my pick, 
’Cause I can’t scratch dis hard cold ground 
Wid a crooked stick. 
(Diggin’, etc.) 


Motor trucks and caissons 

Cut a mighty trench, 

Have to pile de metal on 

Fur dese poor damn French. 
(Diggin’, etc.) 


32 SINGING SOLDIERS 


DIGGIN’ 
ARRANGED BY J. J. N. 
2 
TEL, CX Sy ES SS Db RE DERE MT WE Re a A Oe 
LS 2S Deets en A 
Dig -gin’, dig - gin’, dig-gin’ in Ken-tuc -ky; 

FSR ee Re el TR 
\f_45_-5 SL a sce cneasemmmatsees ear 
iG? 4 tie 

S- a =e ay GS - i GS 


4 Sn eae 
22 Sear see 
Se he ees) [{———____— 
eon a ea 
F, ie ~ 
CG 4 | GG 
bad a ERG » MEERDEES SS 
t : J——3 [4 yg 
) ERE A ASE A EE EER OS 
ig alae 4 
Dig - gin’ in Ten- nes - see; Dig - gin? in 
) pS 
| 
ifi_b Be) ee ee eee 
| fanWiz RRS I er, 
INE. aera) LD OERE remISSey Oi Pe 
rea i Z ae 
Lo CAR 
a = 


\\ 


Mis - sis - sip - pl; Dig - gin 


aN 
i | 
Nd 


SINGING SOLDIERS 33 


According to certain faded notes in my diary, Minnie May 
was a scarlet woman. Her scarletry was best known in the 
fair, sunny city of Natchez, Mississippi. She was one of 
those long, tall, brown-skinned gals who make preachers lay 
their Bibles down. Her meteoric career was brief—Abner 
cut her down—right to size. All that remained to make the 
job complete was the recountal by an American negro steve- 
dore on the docks at St. Nazaire. The singer accompanied 
himself, playing a banjo-uke (supplied by one of the more 
philanthropic welfare organizations). 

A troopship named The Finland had just landed. Steve- 
dores swarmed over her like flies. They toted boxes, bags, 
bundles, and steel rails. Night came on. Shifts changed. 
They were now lifting net-loads of company baggage over 
the side. One net gave way just as it began to move over 
the narrow strip of water to the dock. Foot-lockers hit the 
water with a hollow, sounding splash. A second lieutenant, 
who had not soldiered enough to know the way of war, had 
been kicking around in the hold of The Finland, looking for 
the very baggage that had just gone over the side. 

“You mean to tell me that when the net broke, you made 
no effort to recover the lost articles? Why, goddamit, every- 
thing I own was in my foot-locker—everything I own!” 

“Don’t think it matters much, Mr. Lieutenant. Course 
we is powerful sorry—but can’t nothin’ be done.” 

“Well, I’m a son of a sea cook, how’s that for guts! Drop 
your baggage over and proceed to tell you that it’s just too 
bad. Didn’t you do anything?” 

““Yassar, we done somethin’. We yelled ‘jump from un- 
der,’ but it didn’t do no good—waren’t nobody under jus’ 
then. Course, de reason why we says it don’t matter much 
*bout your traps, is cause de colonel’s baggage wuz los’ too.” 


34 SINGING SOLDIERS 


In the early days of the war, the French used many Ger- 
man prisoners on and about the docks at St. Nazaire. A 
small barracks had been built near the most important cen- 
tre of shipping, where the Germans used to stay while on 
the water-front detail. Although it had to be removed as 


GERMAN PRISONERS 


an obstacle to the tremendous 
operations of 1918, it was used 
a short while by some special 
details of American negro steve- 
dores. Here they used to loaf 
while off duty. An improvised 
canteen had been established 
in one end. Here it was that a 
rather sawed-off sooty black 
boy from Natchez, Mississippi, 
sang the sad story of Minnie 
May. He was a blubber-lipped 
lad, mouthing his words in a 
grotesque manner, and rolling 
his eyes in wide circles to em- 
phasize the moral of his yarn. 
His performance was an imita- 
tion of a Natchez street-singer, 
who practised mendicancy and 


religion for whatever living he gained. The song was sung 
to the tune of “‘ Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.” 


Oh, I know a tale about a young high brown, 
Who vamped every man in her home town. 
(Here follows the usual two-line chorus.) 


Now dis brown skin’s name wuz Minnie May— 
She wore a purple kimona most every day. 


(Chorus.) 


Oe ee eee ee ath ~. 


SINGING SOLDIERS a6 


She had money in ’er stockin’s and earrings in ’er ears— 
But ’bout de Day of Judgment she had some fears. 
(Chorus.) 


Now Minnie May cut a swath that wuz wide and deep— 
But a sergeant-major named Abner—he put ’er to sleep. 
(Chorus.) 


De way she vamped dat soldier boy was an honest shame— 
Folks said he couldn’t even remember ’is name. 
(Chorus.) 


Now Abner didn’t mind dat gal rompin’ aroun’ 
But when she played ’im double, he put ’er under de 


groun’. (Chorus.) 


De brethren and de sisters stood around and prayed, 
But de debil’s price, it had to be paid. 
(Chorus.) 


Now all 0’ you gals wid fire in your blood, 
You better be sure my story’s understood. 
(Chorus.) 


When Gabriel blows his bugle call, 
You're goin’ to have to confess your sins an’ all. 
(Chorus.) 


Now drop your change right in de plate— 
An’ be sorry for your sins before it’s too late. 
(Chorus.) 


* * * 


One day in September, the A. P. M. at the Toul Railway 
Station overhauled me with a sheaf of orders. I had done 
some rather crazy flying during the forenoon. Among other 
things, I had nearly hit another ship as I landed on the 
Collombey les Belles field—a ship with two officers in it and 
two mechanics in front of it. The A. P. M. brassard and the 
sheaf of orders gave me a scare for a moment, but my fears 


36 SINGING SOLDIERS 


were quickly quieted. The military police officer wanted to 
intercept any one of a dozen pilots who were supposed to 
pass through the station that afternoon and send him to 
Vinets instead of Orly. A side-car was outside waiting to 
make the trip. There were a number of ships at the Vinets 
field ready to be delivered to the fighting squadrons with 
the least possible delay. 

For some reason (I can no longer remember), we went by 
way of Bar le Duc and St. Dizier. It was one of those in- 
toxicating fall days—scattered groups of white mare’s tails 
spun lightly across the sky. Looking off through wooded 
sections of countryside, one saw the faint suggestion of a 
purple haze. It would soon be autumn. Already there were 
swirls of withered leaves in the fence corners and the gullies 
beside the roads. Off to the right we could see the observa- 
tion balloons—a few swinging with the full play of their. 
cables; others, part of the way out. The Boche had no doubt 
shot down some of our observers—the others were being 
kept within easy “hauling-in” reach. Just beyond Bar le 
Duc we encountered a very bad stretch of highway. My 
side-car driver suggested that we try another road. At the 
next intersection some M. P.’s were carrying on a banter- 
ing conversation. 

— “Why—why, Mogul, I hardly organized you. All reared 
back wid a M. P. badge on. Why ain’t you up where de 
war is?” 

“Oh, I’se detailed here on M. P. duty.” 

“You’s yellow. You got S-O-S-itis, I know.” 

“No, boy, I ain’t yellow; I wuz put here, honest. I has to 
pick up stragglers.” 

“Star Spangled Banner’ll be sung fo’ you in "bout one 
minute. You, all reared back doin’ M. P. duty. Might jus’ 


SINGING SOLDIERS 37 


ez well unrear yourself and straggle up to where de war is. 
Back areas is only fo’ sick folks an’ Tin Hat Generals.” 

“Say, you're talkin’ right big, ain’t you? How’d you git 
here, anyway ?” 


MOGUL HAD S-O-S-ITIS 


“Me? Oh, I’se a walkin’ case. I wuz ridin’ on de front 
of a ambulance and when I got off, dey went off an’ left me. 
Pll grab another ’fore long.” 

“You a walkin’ case. Walkin’ fo’ what?” 

“Shot in de ear, can’t you see?” 


38 SINGING SOLDIERS 


“What I wants to see is your tags. Never wuz such a 
army as de Germans to be always shootin’ folks in de ears! 
Why not shoot a few o’ you all straight on—have it over.” 

“Listen, brother, it’s all over as fur as I can tell. I’m 
goin’ to put in fo’ M. P. duty when my ear gits O. K.” 

I thought I had listened to enough of their smart talk. 

“Will one of you boys take time out long enough to tell 
me about the road to St. Dizier?” 

Mogul took me very seriously. 

“Yassar, yassar, right now, sir.” 

“Well, what I want to know is this—is there another road 
to St. Dizier, and if so, where is it?” 

“Well sir, no sir. They ain’t but one fur sure and one 
that’s kind of a country lane. Now, down here where you 
sees Christ in the Sentry Box, de bumps wears out—after 
that, you has smooth sailin’. Just turn to de right down 
yonder at Christ in the Sentry Box, yessar, it’s a fair road 
from there on.” 

The road was well marked on the map, but the map had 
not been in the war as long as the road had. 

“Sorry to jounce you ’round so, lieutenant,” said Prince, 
the driver of my side-car. “Engineers ain’t done much to 
improve dis mud hole.” 

Burlap bags (originally intended to be filled with earth 
and used for gun emplacements and trench constructions) 
had been loaded with the remains of stone buildings and 
piled side by side, making the most perfect of corduroy roads 
—every bag a bump. Just then we passed the roadside 
shrine, which had been referred to as ‘“‘Christ in the Sentry 
Box,” turned to the right, and sure enough, it was a very 
fair road. The little town of Wassy would be our first stop. 
We would try to make it in time for the evening meal. I 


SINGING SOLDIERS 39 


had some very pleasant memories of other dinners at the 
Wassy Hotel—the marvellous meat-pies—the roast duck, 
the jams and jellies made after the Bar le Duc formula. 

It was growing dark when we entered the Val Forest just 
beyond St. Dizier. The mellow odor of late September was 
in the air. There were no stars. Now and then we passed 
timid groups of faintly lighted buildings—buildings that had 
the theatrical air of unreality about them. Prince stopped 
to tinker with the engine. As long as the motor turned over, 
the cheerful noise of the exhaust had kept me from hearing 
the thick-set silence of the forests. It was unbelievably still. 
The trees almost met overhead. 

“Having trouble, Prince?” 

“Nossar, only a nut on my spark control jiggles loose. I 
didn’t want to lose it.” 

Rain fell—at first, lightly—seeming to try our willingness 
to be drenched. Just as we were entering the village of At- 
tancourt, I heard a banging noise. Prince stopped suddenly. 
We had hit one too many bumps. A rod connecting the 
side-car to the motorcycle had broken off. 

“An’, lieutenant, de skies is comin’ down. “We’re goin’ 
to git ourselves soaked—we is, for sure.”’ 

The disabled motorcycle was rolled under the shelter of a 
wagon-yard. A local mechanic examined the breakage and 
said he would patch up the side-car so we might at least 
make the remaining four kilometres to Wassy. 

“T had a feelin’ de skies would come down. I gits it from 
my daddy to tell signs o’ weather. He always told farmers 
when to plant crops fur above and when to plant fur below. 
Course he ain’t got no chance to talk to farmers much now, 
*cause he’s in Chicago—in my home in Chicago.” 

It was raining steadily. The local mechanic fumbled 


40 SINGING SOLDIERS 


around in the semi-darkness, making very little progress. 
I suspected that Prince’s father might prove interesting. 
At least, Prince wanted to talk to some one. I relaxed and 
listened. 

“‘Nossar, my daddy don’t care so much fo’ Chicago. He’s 
sixty year old now. Chicago is fur new style colored folks. 
We used to live ’bout five mile from Macon, Georgia. We 
owned a little general store. My daddy preached de Baptist 
religion on de side. You has colored folks about you callin’ 
’emselves ‘hardshell Baptists,’ ain’t you, lieutenant?” 

“Yes, lots of them, and whites, too.”’ 

“Yassar. In big meetin’s, when we had lots o’ jiners, my 
daddy could speak de ‘unknown tongue.’ Oh, yassar, he 
wuz a powerful singer. Never failed to have jiners when he’d 
sing 

“I don’t want to go till I puts my hand in his’n.’” 

I began to be glad the side-car had broken down. Prince 
was full of his tale. I encouraged him to give the details. 

““My daddy had been prayin’ for a long time so his con- 
gregation might have a new church house. The brethren 
and de sisters made up a rule so as each of ’em would bring 
a brick every time they’d come to meetin’. Didn’t matter 
much what kind o’ brick it was, so long as it was a brick. 
We had a passel o” brick—Pavin’ brick, Face brick, Fire 
brick, Enamel’d brick— 

“All ready to be sot into a church house. One day a 
new-fangled preacher come to our diggin’s. Preached in a 
tent. My daddy’s congregation fell off. He prayed about 
it. He asked God to make him a sign. Nex’ come Wednes- 
day night when dis here new-fangled preacher was a carryin’ 
on in his tent, a storm come along. Lightnin’ struck his 


SINGING SOLDIERS 41 


tent. Waren’t no more tent. Waren’t no more new-fangled 
preachin’. My daddy said God had spoke his mind. Folks 
said my daddy had put a curse on dis new-fangled preacher. 
. . . I went to Chicago "bout dat time. In a little while, my 
daddy sold his store and come to Chicago, too. He couldn’t 
preach no more in Georgia. Folks said he was a witch, 
‘count of de lightnin’ strikin’ de camp meetin’. Funny how 
both preachers wuz gone. But dey is a mighty pile of unsot 
brick in Georgia—My daddy’s monument. Face _ brick, 
Pavin’ brick, Fire brick, All kinds o’ brick—A mighty pile 
of unsot brick—My daddy’s monument in Georgia.” 

It was late when we finally arrived at Wassy, but in my 
notes I had a record of the song that “never failed to bring 
jiners” to the altar rail of the little church in Georgia. It 
was a plaintive, tuneless affair, invented, no doubt, by the 
old negro himself. 

I have often wondered what that French mechanic made 
of my writing down the song, stopping Prince now and again, 
asking him to repeat a passage several times until I could 
grasp the tone picture and the rhythmic pattern of the music. 
There is a mighty pile of unset bricks in Georgia—Face 
bricks, Paving bricks, Fire bricks, Enamelled bricks—But 
it seems that the most enduring monument Prince’s father 
could ever have will be the record of two noble songs his 


I’m a_ war- rior in de ar - my. Uma 76. 


war - rior for de Lord. Tm a war- rior, I’m a 


42 SINGING SOLDIERS 


Fe eee 


p bi ~~ 
Wwar- rior in de ar- my of de _ Lord............. 
Verse 
My God is a might-y God in bat -tle....... 


might-y God in bat - tle; He’s fight-in’ for de _ right. 


son passed on to me—“‘I Don’t Want to Go,” recorded in 
Attancourt, and “I’m a Warrior,” recorded later. 


I’m A WarrRIoR 


Oh, I’m a warrior in de army— 

I’m a warrior for de Lord, 

Oh, I’m a warrior, 

I’m a warrior in de army of de Lord. 


My God is a mighty God in battle— 
My God is a victor in de fight— ; 
My God is a mighty God in battle— 
He’s fightin’ for de right. 


Oh, I’m a sojer in de army— 

I’m a sojer for de Lord, 

I’m a sojer, 

I’m a sojer in de army of de Lord. 


SINGING SOLDIERS 43 
ARRANGED BY J. J. N. 
ny Chorus 
7 i a ee a  —_ ee [sere 
ee 
Oh, I don’t want to go. Oh, I don’t want to 
am. 
i —— 
ASE. ee ZA FA a co 27 aera 
i Fo aeaaane 
| Ae: 
ee BERRA AS Se a 
fiers Ges 2] nie ee eee eS 
SS Sa Sas Sanne 
fa Lo ey" eid BG Se Aa Ae! i haem 
: CSRS Aaa eines Ce i Satie : 
go. Oh, I don’t want to _ go, till I 
Pan ———— —— 
G— te = 
ay, TF, f S 
6 co ; o- - 
lj @ 
—_ 
——— <=" i 
hesdomer e. oye aaa Sa vio peresorenne oa 
oA. aH, Go 
Verse 
ost am = = manna Sonics eer av ears 
ee yt te ms age gs 
Sr es Se re eee 


puts my hand in his’n. Oh, Prom-ise ob sal -va-tion. Oh, 


a 
4 EL Rey af 
7 celia eR a = Sanne mea 
ie) ees ea 7 eee 
RCD po fain (A URE ES LID OR Peds arama | SP a 

2, = 2 = 

OA, LA 

oa eo, neon 
FREE Se aE CPT 
4 i 
TT ce ie 
(Sy Se es = 


44 SINGING SOLDIERS 


oo eras 


oS 27 MASEL) GTS OR at 
NSS te ant 


Prom -ise ob’ sal- va - - = = tion. Oh, Prom-ise ob _ sal - 


CA, 
CA Ir 
_ le | RR RNTeSE PERS a 
Wu > Eee Ba a Sais ae SETS BRR 
(A UREN AS” Gi Res Ta ETL [A Tacha 
ae L_|__} —_ fee ee 
va © -« tion, won’t you set me 
a ee PE 
|) En: ae BESS i ae A 
SS SS i a a Pe a See ee 
eae pees S a aes 
fe if @ A, ~ o rr“ 
— — 1 
Ce (GT PSST ST RST 
cs Sa eR 


I Don’t Want to Go 


Oh, I don’t want to go— 

I don’t want to go— 

Oh, I don’t want to go— 
Till I puts my hand in his’n. 


Oh, promise of salvation— 
Promise of salvation— 
Promise of salvation— 
Won’t you set me free? 


Oh, bloody cross of Jesus— 
Bloody cross of Jesus— 
Bloody cross of Jesus, 
Won’t you set me free? 


SINGING SOLDIERS 


Oh, holy tongues of fire— 
Holy tongues of fire— 
Holy tongues of fire— 
Won’t you set me free? 


Oh, mighty draught of fishes— 
Mighty draught of fishes— 
Oh, mighty draught of fishes— 
Won’t you set me free? 


Oh, promise over Jordan— 
Promise over Jordan— 
Oh, promise over Jordan— 
Won’t you set me free? 


45 


CHAPTER III 


or Bar-le-Duc in the fall of 1918. . . . The drivers of 

army motor vehicles were said to be “ambigodamdex- 
trous” and knew the roads besides, while the hapless passen- 
gers smoked, took swigs at straw-covered bottles, fondled 
lucky pieces, and wished. 

The particular motor vehicle we were riding in—known 
to army folks as a camion—had the word “Fiat” stamped 
on the side of it. It was inclined to be weak on the hills, but 
possessed of unbelievable speed on the level stretches. We ' 
passed the usual collection of staff cars, going hell-bent-for- 
breakfast, some heavily laden Q. M. trucks, and then an all- 
metal ammunition train... . 


The ammunition trucks were slow-going devices—they 
46 


IGHTS were never displayed on those roads around Toul 


SINGING SOLDIERS 47 


snorted and puffed, but had the advantage of steering on all 
four wheels. They could miss us more easily than we could 
miss them—at least, all of them except one could, and that 
one hit us a jolt that put the radiator of our Fiat right up 
on the dashboard with the steering-post. That ammunition 
truck didn’t even stop—they were so sturdy... . 

After the crash our Fiat staggered to the edge of the road 
and slid down a grassy embankment, where it turned bottom 
side uppermost in about six inches of stagnant water—stag- 
nant water, green water, and mud. . . . The men who could 
talk the loudest tried to explain to one another how it all 
happened; the others felt their bodies for any possible loss 
or damage, extricating themselves the while from the re- 
mains of the Fiat, the foot-lockers, the musette bags, and 
the map cases... . 

Some time later a Quartermaster truck kindly took part 
of us aboard. The fact that the truck was headed in the 
general direction of our original destination (the railway 
station at Toul) assured us at least that we were on our 
Wayits <- 

The city of Toul dates back to Roman times. It boasts 
of a wall, a moat, and a practical drawbridge. These relics 
of antique warfare might have assured some of the more 
trusting citizenry, but soldiers merely smiled when they 
thought of the sturdy drawbridge under a salvo of 42 c. m. 
howitzers. The 42 c.m. howitzers were held off, however, 
through the fortunate existence of a chain of defenses 
(known as the Toul-Nancy Defense System), designed and 
brought to a fair state of completion in the spring of 1914 
by one Ferdinand Foch, soldier extraordinaire. . . . 

The Q. M. truck dropped us off on the south side of the 
city near a huge pile of army material. . . . One thing par- 


48 SINGING SOLDIERS 


ticularly attracted our attention—coils of smooth iron wire. 

. The wire was piled under a grove of trees, like a great 
heap of black doughnuts. ... Strange to say, this wire 
was still there under the same trees long after the Armistice 
was signed—it had never been used... . We were later 
told by a member of the French Engineers that the wire had 


Sisk A y= 
Goss pa > Cae ff = 
SIE he ZO Set GR 


re 
pata bed 


undoubtedly been intended to reinforce concrete pill-box 
forts for the additional protection of the Toul-Nancy sector 
. but as the centre of the war moved northward, the 
idea had been abandoned. . . . 
There were other Q. M. trucks besides the one we had 
ridden in—they were being loaded and unloaded by gangs 
of colored boys. Some of the boys sang as they worked. .. . 


Black man fights wid de shovel and de pick— 


Lordy, turn your face on me— 


SINGING SOLDIERS 49 


LORDY, TURN YOUR FACE 
ARRANGED By J. J. N. 


a aus " ~ - 
Va et A EOIN halle — Leones 
Ay} “6 : naar 


Black man fights wid de shov-el and de o. Dick? 


Ie : oo 
Cena ——————— 
—~ 

(2 gic aay saan temas pee are [cae eR 


am.aas 
T 7 : == ae 2 SE ay ae a a 
a er i a So eee 


Lord-y,turn yourfaceon me. Nev-er gits norest ’causehe 
H+ wa 
B' — =~ eS = 
fae ee te a Sin Faye 
ANSD, Ca ie = 
Ke i¢ C7, @ 
fj e@ 
Comes 
Lap \2 4 i, 2 Be a zy 
Caras or 
= 
fe 
a — 2 ~ = 
ee De Rael Ne 22 2S Se “Sees PED 8 
At ae a (es ka a ee ee Sere et 
S = a a ‘eva in ie aa 4 


nev-er gits sick; Lord-y, turn your face on me. 


50 SINGING SOLDIERS 


He never gits no rest ’cause he never gits sick .. . 
Lordy, turn your face on me... . 


These colored boys had not seen actual fighting... . 
They had been detailed to a less glorious, but by no means 
less important side of warfare. . . . The first and third lines 
were sung by a single voice, while the second and fourth 
were sung in a freely harmonized manner by all who wished 
to join in. ... Many times this ensemble singing was al- 
most lost in the noise of the moving feet and the picking up 
and putting down of heavy objects. . . . It was more like 
MiechOn, 4.5 


Jined de army fur to git free clothes— 
Lordy, turn your face on me— 

What we’re fightin’ bout, nobody knows— 
Lordy, turn your face on me... . 


As we look back on the results of the war, we are prone to 
think that this verse was composed by a philosopher, in- 
“6 (alot Baie 


Never goin’ to ride dat ocean no more— 

Lordy, turn your face on me— 

Goin’ to walk right home to my cabin door... 
Lordy, turn your face on me.* .. . 


* This last verse reminds one of the tale told by an American officer who returned 
to France after an absence of two years. One day while travelling through one of 
the areas occupied by American troops during the war, he happened to see a colored 
fellow wearing a very tattered suit of clothes, part of which proved to be American 
issue olive drab. After much questioning, the colored man gave up his pose and 
confessed himself to be an American soldier who had deserted rather than go home 
on aship. “Yes, sar,” he said, “I knows I’se a deserter. I knows they has a place 
made special fur me at Levensworth—I knows—but even so, I ain’t goin’ to ride 
dat ocean. No, sar! An’ if ever dey do come atter me in sich numbers as I sees 
I must go home, den by gollies, I’ll jus’ walk home if I has to go ’round by way 
o’ New Orleans. .. .” 


SINGING SOLDIERS SI 


We thought how often in the production of the drama, 
theatrical producers and managers had unsuccessfully tried 
to gain the very effect we beheld at that moment. . . . The 
faces of the singers could not be seen. . . . To us they were 
only black masses moving in the rhythm of a song—a song 
admirably revealing an indomitable spirit of philosophic 
humor, which has survived so many generations of suppres- 
sion. . 

As we turned to go, we realized that the camion accident 
had caused us to miss the only fast train for many hours. 
» « » We no longer had any reason to hurry. The air of the 
early fall night blew softly against our faces as we wearily 
followed the Toul wall around to the most eastern side, 
where the railway station was. The road passed immedi- 
ately beside one of the many branches of the Moselle- 
Rhine canal system. Peak-roofed barges were huddled at 
the canal sides—clusters of miniature Noah’s Arks, weath- 
ered almost black from uncounted years of exposure, seem- 
ing to gain courage through numbers. At one place we en- 
countered some lock tenders allowing the passage of a tow. 
... They sang bits of a laboring song at one another, 
employing an almost incomprehensible jargon of French 
Datoisy... | 

Farther off to the right we could see the trees that skirted 
the Moselle—the Moselle on its way to Metz and, farther 
on, into the Rhine. . . . Left of us lay the city—ever so 
quietly—as if it were holding its breath lest some one find 
it out. . . . A church tower or more imposing building oc- 
casionally raising its head above the edge of the wall and 
the thick black mantle of trees. . . . 

What battles had been fought and might be fought again 
upon the very ground we trod! We looked to the northeast. 


5 SINGING SOLDIERS 


The sky was streaked with orange and red. The air trembled 
a bit. A battery of long-range guns firing its nightly ration 
of shells brought us back from the days of Jeanne ate to 
our own tragically unromantic war... . 

In the space before the railway station the Red Cross 
Canteen was doing capacity business. Almost every Allied 
uniform was represented in the two long lines which crept 
slowly, endlessly into the hut. The canteen workers were 
not as spick and span as usual. They were very weary. 
They no longer resembled the Red Cross girls found on post- 
ers back in the States. They had been on the job since 
early morning. In the past two weeks they had had little 
or no rest. For there was a war going on just over the way. 
Troops seemed to be coming from everywhere. 

One of the lines coming into the hut had halted. Four 
boys were carrying on a whispered conversation with the 
girl behind the counter. 

“Listen, miss, we only got about sixty centimes between 
us. Could you fix us up on a little something? We're sure 
hungry. Here it is—it’s sixty-five centimes.” 

The chocolate, tea, or coffee with sandwiches served was 
usually ten to fifteen centimes. Their pooled resources might 
have paid the bill. But there was a war going on just over 
yonder. There had been a jolly bombing raid earlier in the 
evening—part of the station near by had been smashed in. 

. What was sixty centimes to the Red Cross Canteen at 
Toul! Cups of something hot and a sandwich each were 
pushed over the counter to them. Their sixty centimes were 
also pushed over to them... . 

“Come around after a while and help me cut some bread, 
or—let’s see, maybe you can wash a few cups. Keep the 
centimes—you may need ’em.” 


SINGING SOLDIERS 53 


They gulped their food in silence. It must be true, then. 
These Janes from America could be kind to buck privates— 
they were not all given to specializing on gold oak-leaves 
and silver eagles. The lad with the remains of an ugly cut 
on his forehead spoke first. 

““Goddam if I ever had it happen to me before. An’ she’s 


a Jew. Sonovabitch if I don’t wash cups. [Il wash the 
whole bloody godamn canteen. An’ she even give us back 
our centimes. Never had it happen before.” 

The others had no words. They looked dumbly at the 
Jewess, whose lovely brown eyes smiled a recognition to 
each boy as he took his food and gave way to the next... 
smiled as nearly as her weariness would permit. 

We knew her well. She had been at our camp in Issoudun 
early in the war. We talked over old times—Issoudun— 


54 SINGING SOLDIERS 


“the muddiest hole in all France.” The wild New Year’s 
shooting match. Our camp newspaper, now the highly organ- 
ized Plane News. She called us by our first names. Indeed, 
we were regarded with suspicion by the long lines that crept 
—slowly—endlessly—into the hut. 

Back stage, in the canteen’s kitchen, I found a very par- 
ticular friend of mine—a Red Cross girl from St. Louis. 
She had four colored boys helping her with a pot-washing 
job. They were from one of the infantry regiments of the 
g2d Division, then passing through Toul—riding in the side- 
door Pullmans Francaise—forty to the car. 

As I elaborated on the “Lordy, Turn Your Face On Me” 
working-song, singing to my St. Louis friend snatches of the 
tune, I noticed one of the colored boys getting his mouth 
made up for a speech. 

“Please, sar . . . would de flyin’ machine lieutenant like 
to hear our song ’bout de French railway man?” 

For the next five minutes the Red Cross pots were scoured 
to the rhythm of the French railway song. The verses were 
almost tuneless. I was too sleepy to struggle with writing it 
down. I did, however, scratch off the tune of the chorus. 
The verses were sung to four measures of music, but the 
chorus made up the unusual number of ten measures, and 
the words required the use of the word “Bush” (meaning 
Boche) to rhyme with the word “push.” Altogether the 
song was a delicious piece of reckless, errant imagination. 


Oh, you jined up fur fightin’ in a he-man’s war. 
An’ you're goin’ to do your fightin’ in a French freight car. 


Chorus: 
Oh, mister French railroad man, whar you takin’ us to— 
Please, mister French railroad man, whar you takin’ us to— 


SINGING SOLDIERS 55 


Goin’ to take you up fo’ de next big push— 
Goin’ to let you take a swing at dose awful “ Bush” *— 


Oh, I knows dey’s trouble ahead. 


Ride all night and ride all day— 
Got to stand up straight, ’cause dey’s no place to lay. 
(Chorus.) 


Forty men and eight army horses— 
Goin’ to come back home wid some nice German crosses. 
(Chorus.) 


If I gits home to the land of de free— 
Pullman train’ll be the place for me. 
(Chorus.) 


Mr. Engineer, won’t you please haul your freight, 
My feet is singing a hymn of hate. 
(Chorus.) 


Oh, I knows dey’s trouble up yonder ahead— 
But it wouldn’t matter much if I could lay my head. 
(Chorus.) 


God, how sleepy I was. For two nights and two days we 
had been either flying or bumping over the French country- 


* The use of the word “Bush” in the French Railroad Man Song brings to mind 
the following yarn—related to me by one of the negro boys who had seen service 
on the front—he was describing the fighting qualities of the various armies. ... 

“Now boy, dis here French army is a whale of a fightin’ machine. . . . Dey has 
all de trick affairs for makin’ war . . . long range guns, grenades, and a passel of 
inventions we ain’t never heard of yit. . . . An’ dose bayonets dey use—long ones, 
three-cornered like a overgrown needle. . . . Yes, and dese English lads—wonder- 
ful fighters. . . . Dey drinks a lot of tea but dey does fight. . . . An’ de Italians, 
an de Australians, an’ de Belgians, an’ de Germans wid dose machine guns dat 
shoot so slow and go in so deep. . . . But Mister, let me tell you dis one thing 
. . . if ever you have to go out yonder and have to fight in dis war like I did— 
fight wid ’em—grapple wid *em—stick at ’em wid bayonets—take my word for 
de truth and look out for dose Bush—look out for dose Bush, dey is hell. rer 
(The story-teller thought the so-called Boche, mispronounced “Bush,” were an 
entirely different army.) 


56 SINGING SOLDIERS 


side in camions. My feet hung as if they were weighted. 
I’d lost my equipment in the last camion smash. The other 
members of the outfit envied my good fortune. I had noth- 
ing to carry—not even a map-case. 

Once inside the railway station I wandered across the 
tracks to the eastern end of the yard, where part of the 


HOMMES 40—CHEVEAUX 8 


366th Infantry Regiment of the 92d Division and a train- 
load of French artillerymen were sidetracked. The French- 
men had lashed their gun-carriages and caissons to the tops 
of flat-cars. The barrels of the guns were pointed sharply 
skyward—slender barrels of seventy-fives, poking through 
tarpaulins, like the tail feathers of giant birds with their 
heads under their wings, asleep in rows on flat-cars. 

Both the colored boys of the 366th and the French artil- 
lerymen were riding ““Hommes quarante—cheveaux huit.” 
The centres of the cars were piled high with equipment, the 


SINGING SOLDIERS 7 


men sprawling about in whatever unoccupied space they 
could find. Food was being passed out to the 366th. 


“Rust time we has et in hell knows when.”’ 


“FUST TIME WE HAS ET IN HELL KNOWS WHEN” 


Up toward the head end of the train they were singing. I 
debated with myself a long time before I mustered up enough 
energy even to go and listen. The song was too naive to 
miss. I took down the words and later, in the office of the 
A. P. M., after one of my boys had given.me a generous 


58 SINGING SOLDIERS 


hooker of good hard rum, I wrote off what I could remem- 
ber of the music. There seemed to be a difference of opinion 
about some of the lines in the refrain. One group of the 
colored boys sang about Mississippi—others referred to Ten- 
nessee. I assumed the Tennessee version to have more basis 
of fact—thereupon, it found a place in the manuscript. 

It was a sleepy-eyed, muchly blotted manuscript, but I 
stuck to the task of writing it off, knowing that it would be 
a long while before I’d have the good fortune to encounter 
three original songs in one day. 


German throwed a hand grenade— 

Waren’t no use ’cause its innards wuz dead... . 
Good-by—I says good-by. .. . 

Good-by—uhm hmm— 

Good-by, Tennessee, twill I sees you again. 


When 366 went over de top— 

Kaiser’s army wuz a flop... . 
Good-by—I says good-by. .. . 
Good-by—uhm hmm— 

Good-by, Tennessee, twill I sees you again. 


President said go git yo’ gun— | 

Cause, Sam, you'll have to fight dat Hun... . 
Good-by—I says good-by. .. . 
Good-by—uhm hmm... . 

Good-by, Tennessee, twill I sees you again. 


Colonel says you'll have to plough 
Trenches, ’cause dis war’s a wow. .. . 
Good-by—I says good-by. . . . 
Good-by—uhm hmm... . 

Good-by, Tennessee, twill I sees you again. 


SINGING SOLDIERS 59 


German throwed a hand grenade, Warent no use, causeits innerds wuz dead. 


ax. 
TF et A OE eee EEE Eee Sa ae 
(ities Ser ae ns Se BR a - Jay ae ER ee Bo 
Wy 4 @§ | _{1_g—@—_ +1 -@ (aie Bt ae Tag 
LSU i= 3s hi ae) di, =| oem 


2S 


ieee” | ae eG 
Se er Good «Dyesoie noi vesegead: Good- 


bye, Ten-ne - ssee, twill I sees you a = gain. 


ut 
Wl 
ni 
tt 
un 
3H 
ul 
Mill 
til 
nil 
sania 
ry 
AM? 


by 
d| 
lhl 
i 
ih 
BS 
| 
| 

i) 


The little responsive “uhm hmms” were either sung by some one near by or by 
the soloist himself. Once the assisting singer sang “I says good-by ...” The 
form of the song varied with the verses. One might say that the singers defied 
form and note value in an attempt to gain an unusual rhythm and tell their story 
at the same time. 


60 SINGING SOLDIERS 


Doctor says you'd better take 
Something “long fur stomach-ache. .. . 
Good-by—I says good-by— 
Good-by—uhm hmm... . 


Good-by, Tennessee, twill I sees you again. 


Tote my rabbit’s foot to charm 

Hun, so’s he can’t do no harm... . 
Good-by—I says good-by— 
Good-by—uhm hmm... . 

Good-by, Tennessee, twill I sees you again. 


I knows a place in Tennessee— 
Where fried spring chicken is a waitin’ fur me... . 
Good-by—I says good-by— 
Good-by—uhm hmm... . 
Good-by, Tennessee, twill I sees you again. 
* CK 
When all the saw-toothed bayonets and German helmets 
have rusted into iron oxide, we will still have ‘‘ Mademoiselle 
from Armentiers” as one of the imperishable souvenirs of 
this man’s war. The negro boys I encountered were “off” 
“Mademoiselle from Armentiers.” It seemed that as they 
had little to do with its manufacture, they would not adver- 
tise 1t by singing it more than occasionally. In white out- 
fits, however, one was sure to find a cook, a barracks orderly, 
or a company jester, who would, with little or no encourage- 
ment, sing 391 verses of this epic. The verses varied with 
the experiences and duty detail of the singer. Usually there 
were but a few good verses, and several hundred where the 
rhymes were forced and the references were made to local 
unimportant persons. The five verses offered here were sup- 
plied me by a member of the 367th Infantry Regiment. 
This regiment was known as “The Buffaloes.” 


SINGING SOLDIERS 61 


The colored boys were sidetracked near the Bar le Duc 
Railway Station. The spokesman was contemptuous of re- 
placements. 

“We is members of de first batallion. We is Buftaloes— 


GERMANS ~ NIMCE Pe Ace 
WiTH Your GO0-ALAPANA 
SoL DIE ReS -HAS Go 


eeu PY THE SEAT oF 
YouoR PANTS 


original Buffaloes. All de rest of dese here baboons you-all 
sees here-’n-abouts is only replacements.” 


Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, 
Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, 
I’se glad I is a Buffalo— 

>Cause we is always on de go— 

Inky dinky,* parlez-vous. 


Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, 
Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, 
* The negro sang “Inky Dinky” rather than “Hinky Dinky.” 


62 , SINGING SOLDIERS 


I’d like to git myself a sip 
O’ what you got restin’ on your hip— 
Inky Dinky, parlez-vous. 


Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, 
Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, 
I wouldn’t give my high-brown belle, 

For every mademoiselle dis side o’ hell— 
Inky Dinky, parlez-vous. 


Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, 
Mademoiselle from Armentiers, parlez-vous, 
I can’t read nor I can’t write, 

But, boy, when I has to, I can fight, 

Inky Dinky, parlez-vous. 


I don’t know dis Mademoiselle from Armentiers, 
I don’t know dis Mademoiselle from Armentiers, 
I don’t know and I don’t care, 

Ef she was really ever there, 

Inky Dinky, parlez-vous. 


(Diary note, Oct. 12, 7918.) “Landed in a funny little 
evacuation hospital just over the hill from Collombey les Belles, 
this morning. The Doc at camp said he didn’t know whether 
I had a plain sore throat, flu, or spinal meningitis. The food 
1s simply terrible—uncooked goldfish and raw onions for lunch 
—some diet for a sick man. And the coffee—wow! .. . 

(October 13th.) . . « lots of shot-up lads in this shake-down 
—and some of the funniest orderlies I ever saw. The two in 
our ward are named “Pancho Pete” and “Bed Pan Bill.” 
The black orderlies are much more interesting and what's more 
important, they sing. When they let me out I'll write some of 
their tunes down... . 

(October 17th.) . . . (On the way to Toul) What a hospital 
that was. I’ve gone over the list and thanked all the gods, their 
assistants, the bishops, the saints, the rabbis, and the apostles 


SINGING SOLDIERS 63 


that I got out of that place alive. I'll never be able to look at a 
raw onion again. Not a bad song though, these colored order- 
lies sang, about the ‘ Burden-Bearer’.” 


When you feels dat you mus’ go—weepin’ days for Jesus, 
Leave your burden here below—weepin’ days for Jesus. 


Chorus: 


For he’s a burden-bearer, a burden-bearer, a burden-bearer, 
For he’s a burden-bearer, a burden-bearer, a burden-bearer. 


64 SINGING SOLDIERS 


HE’S A BURDEN-BEARER 
ARRANGED By J. J. N. 


Verse 
SSS Se 


ae: 
When you feels dat you must go, Weep-in days for 


a p 
y, WN PRES, ~~... 
v wall ere id a pen ae WaeNEw TINGLE sw 
ts oO eer ean Menteon mens 
Se 
Je; => sus; Leave your bur - den here be - low, 
()\ of) 
et 
"a LL el Rl 0 moe ee 
© enreste ta 
ASP es ii et 


Weep - in? days for Je - sus. For He's a burden- 


() of | 
| |f < cee (Rea 
— 2 wn oat aes 
ISB. @ 


SINGING SOLDIERS 65 


Oe 3 


See 
) IS eae Oo -—o— : DY a Pg Se) ped ° 
_— _ _— R we 


bearer, a burden-bearer, a _ burden - bearer. For 


66 SINGING SOLDIERS 


I done helt my head too high—weepin’ days for Jesus, 
Goin’ to let my pride go by,—weepin’ days for Jesus. 
(Chorus.) 


When he climbed up Calvary—weepin’ days for Jesus, 
Totin’ his cross for you and me—weepin’ days for Jesus. 
(Chorus.) 


Soldier stuck ’im in de side—weepin’ days for Jesus, 
Dat’s de time our Saviour died—weepin’ days for Jesus. 
(Chorus.) 


White folks laid ’im in dat tomb—weepin’ days for Jesus, 
Hoped he’d stay twill de clap of doom—weepin’ days for 
Jesus. 
(Chorus.) 


Three days passed and he war out—weepin’ days for Jesus, 
Warn’t no reason den for doubt—weepin’ days for Jesus. 


(Chorus.) 


This song was opened by one singing of the chorus. Oftentimes between verses 
the chorus was sung twice. 


* * * 

One frosty morning in October, 1918, I was given orders 
to fly a new type Spad from Orly-Seine to Issoudun (the 
third Aviation Instruction Centre). The major explained 
that my ship contained a very expensive collection of photo- 
graphic equipment, and intimated that I might either land 
the Spad and the equipment safely at Issoudun, or never 
return to Orly. 

It was not like old times to get back to Issoudun. The 
barracks had been equipped with running water and other 
twentieth-century sanitary contraptions, very unlike those 
we had lived with and learned to like, in the old days—the 
early days of 1917. The original and best-looking Red Cross 


sadly 


SINGING SOLDIERS 67 
girls were gone. The Plane News had graduated into a big 


city sheet with colored supplements. The camp swarmed 
with newly arrived American lieutenants, in conspicuously 
new olive drab—gold-bar lieutenants in bright yellow Sam 
Browne belts. They looked at me in my moleskin pants and 
flying-coat (both stained with the oil and grease of many 
flights) and wondered what army I belonged to. 

I had originally intended to remain in camp over night, 
but the news of a big-calibre railway wreck came in from 
the near-by town of Chateauroux. My plans were changed at 
once. A detail of men from Issoudun had been sent to clear 
away, to help restore a very necessary piece of roadbed. 
On the pretext of spending the night in Chateauroux (in order 
to catch an early train next morning) I left camp, riding on 
a truck headed in the direction of the wreck. It was a truck 
of food-stuffs, intended to ration the wrecking crews. The 
forward end of the truck was loaded with hard bread—hard 
bread, beans, and “canned bill.” Aft they had stowed four 
galvanized-iron cans of hot coffee. The truck was springless, 
the roads were rutted, and the driver drove like “hell beatin’ 
tanbark.”’ 

It was about 11.30 when we arrived at the scene of the 
wreck. The bed of the truck leaked coffee like an immense 
sieve. Not more than a third of the original contents of the 
can remained. The dry rations forward were awash with 
tepid coffee. A sergeant balled hell out of the driver and 
turned to a waiting line of hungry men. 

“This is a sorry lookin’ goddam mess, but chow is chow, 
fellows, an’ you can just thank Christ that some of it came 
in water-tight tins.” 

The white boys ate sullenly and threw themselves on the 
ground for a moment’s rest before going back to the clearing 


68 SINGING SOLDIERS 


away. Some colored soldiers who had been temporarily 
quartered near Chateauroux were also working on the wreck. 


After they had eaten, they turned to kidding their officers 
by singing the ‘‘Pay Roll Song.” 


“Pay Roll Song,” to the tune of “Marching through 
Georgia.” 
All we do is sign the pay roll 
All we do is sign the pay roll 
All we do is sign the pay roll 
but we never get a goddam cent.... 


I felt sure that before the night was over they’d sing 
something worth writing down. They sang the “Pay Roll 
Song”’’ as often as it would stand repetition, then after a 
short pause and several bad starts struck up an original ver- 
sion of a very familiar old song about going home. Sitting 
on the seat of the ration truck, I wrote off their jingles on 


SINGING SOLDIERS 69 


every piece of paper available, and later accidentally 
dropped the entire record in a puddle of cold coffee on the 
truck floor. 

Next morning in Chateauroux, after the early train had 
been safely missed, a clear copy was made of the carefully 
dried notes. There were only eleven verses of the song. If 
the paper had held out I might have had twenty. When 
white boys sang this tune, they borrowed their verses from 
the songs of other wars—for example: 


I gave myself to Uncle Sam— 

Now I’m not worth a good goddam— 
I don’t want any more France. .. . 
Jesus, I want to go home. 


But the colored fellows made up their own verses. . . 


When I came over I was mama’s pride and joy— 
Now I’m just one of the Hoy-Poloy. ... 

I don’t want any more France... . 

Jesus, I want to go home. 


When I gits a chance to do my stuff— 

Pll strangle some German twill he hollers “nuff” — 
I don’t want any more France. .. . 

Jesus, I want to go home. 


I brought my razor from the other side. . . . 

An’ I hopes to whet dat blade on de Kaiser’s hide . . . 
I don’t want any more France— 

Jesus, I want to go home. 


Dices don’t love their papa no more— 
Since we left dat United shore— 

I don’t want any more France— 
Jesus, I want to go home. 


7O 


SINGING SOLDIERS 


My gal up an’ called my bluff— 
An’ brother, did I do my stuff— 
I don’t want any more France— 
Jesus, I want to go home. 


Officers, they live up on de hill— 

We live down in de muck and de swill— 
I don’t want any more France— 

Jesus, I want to go home. 


I got a gal—her name is May— 

She holds me tight mos’ all o’ de day— 
I don’t want any more France— 

Jesus, I want to go home. 


Pay day, won’t you please come ’round— 

I wants to take a trip to Chateauroux town— 
I don’t want any more France. . 

Jesus, I want to go home. 


Soldier boy, don’t you miss your aim— 

’Cause when Heinie gits yo’ range, it’s goin’ to be a 
shame— 

I don’t want any more France— 

Jesus, I want to go home. 


Don’t waste yo’ time wonderin’ if every shell’s a dud— 
Cause it only takes one to curdle yo’ blood— 

I don’t want any more France— 

Jesus, I want to go home. 


If you don’t want yo’ bones to be used fur fertilize— 
Better sing out yo’ prayers and don’t tell God no lies— 
I don’t want any more France— 

Jesus, I want to go home. 


he ae ra 


SINGING SOLDIERS 71 


I DON’T WANT ANY MORE FRANCE 


ARRANGED By J. J. N. 
4 Verse 


Gave my-self to Un-cle} Sam, Now I’m not worth a 


VPXCE TAF LASS See ar PS = be 2 Bila 
(O-eOt2 ree 72 ae 
AL, a -— Seca ie cue ern ame 
Chorus 
— eT E YS Ia 
nud x 3 q 3 
Hp = SGN n — SY kavaasia 
‘ihe ee a . 5 arg rai ” tas 
good God damn. I don’t want an - y more 


7 
PGs Saar EEE PRED TTT Tate eee 
| fae a ee __o i 
Neer [aoe Jeo meee | 

ETance:. .. Je - sus, I want’ to go home 
aan eee an oe 
max — jo ee a i 
io +e $$ nor Een ee per eee 
aN a KEE EST sae ps = 
LW -¢-e—_ ey Pate ret 
3 


72 SINGING SOLDIERS 


That American chaplain so well known and so much loved 
by the sick and wounded in one of the hospitals, used to 
swap with a colored boy a story for a song. The chaplain 
was an Irishman and, as one might expect, had an almost 
inexhaustible supply of tales. Some were more dry-cleaned 
than others, but every one, if properly told, carried a good 
legitimate laugh with it. 

Prior to the war, the colored boy, affectionately called 
Bolo, had been employed in the turpentine forests of the 
Southland. From his songs and stories one gathered that 
the negroes of the turpentine country had developed an in- 
dividual collection of “‘hants” and superstitions. His father, 
for example, had for many years been engaged in making 
and selling a so-called “ voodoo-powder,” which, when sprin- 
kled across the doorways at night-time, was guaranteed to 
forestall the entrance of the dreaded needle-witch.* 

Of the songs he sang, the one involving the moon was by far 
the most nearly unique. He said that the verses of this par- 
ticular tune were part of the hymn tunes and shoutin’ praise, 
used in his neck o’ the woods back home, but he’d made up 
the chorus—modernized the text, one would say, to fit the 
idea of the war. (He called the choruses “The repeatin’s” 
Although both verses and tunes varied from time to time, 
the words were decidedly the most constant. . . . 


I don’t think I’se long for here. . . . 
I seed a ring around de moon. 

I don’t think I’se long for here. . . . 
An’ de change can’t come too soon. 


* The needle-witch was a kind of harpy, who, after having been tarred and feath- 
ered by irate, upright citizens, during a long-ago witchcraft orgy, had wallowed her- 
self in pine needles and appears thus to this very day, much resembling a porcupine. 


SINGING SOLDIERS 73 


Refrain: 
Oh, stop up de mouths of dose cannons, 
And throw yo’ bayonets down... . 
Cause fightin’ an’ killin’ ain’t nothin’ to do... . 


When de day o’ de Lord come around. 


I don’t know what’s over dat hill... . 
When dey’s a ring around de moon... . 
Want to go so bad I can’t sit still. . . . 
An’ de goin’ can’t come too soon. 


(Refrain.) 


Done seed a angel in a dream... . 

Dere wuz a ring around de moon... . 

Said I’se goin’ home in a cloud o’ steam... . 
An’ it can’t come true too soon. 


(Refrain.) 


Bolo had made the interesting error of assuming that any 
bugle call which gave him a chance to stop work or drill, 
making it possible for him to “rest his weary hips,’’ was 
Taps. He called it “The Sweet Ole Taps Tune.” He even 
sang a pathetic sort of song about it. It was the only prac- 
tical musical thing he did. Both words and notes have been 
recorded (the music to the “Moon Song” defied recording). 


I’se goin’ to lay myself right flat down, 

Goin’ to lay down an’ sleep on de hard, cold ground— 
I’se goin’ to lay myself right flat down, 

When I hears dat sweet ole Taps tune sound... . 


Repeatin’s: 
For I’se weary, 


Oh Jesus, so weary, 
Sweet Jesus, so weary— — 


74 SINGING SOLDIERS 


FOR TSE WEARY 


Tse goin’ to lay my - self right down, Goin’ to 


(ere SS 


lay down an’ sleep on de hard, cold ground. 


ie 
Tse goin’ to lay my-self right down, When I hears dat sweet ole 


SS SSS 


taps tune sound. For I’se wea - ry,... oh, Je -sus, so 


wea-ry; Sweet Je-sus, so wea-ry... in bod-y and soul. 


In body an’ soul. . 

I says ’se weary— 

Oh Jesus, so weary, 
Sweet Jesus, so weary— 
In body an’ soul. ... 


The so-called “‘repeatin’s”’ gave the reason for the great de- 
SIré. to TESt, 41. 

When the United States Air Service purchased a supply 
of Sopwith Camels from the English, we knew that it would 
be up to us at Orly to fly them from the English airdromes 
to our fields at Vinets and Collombey les Belles. The Camels 
the English turned out were motored (as a rule) with French 


SINGING SOLDIERS 76 


Monosaupape rotary engines—very good engines when they 
didn’t catch fire or fly to pieces from overheating. The suc- 
cess or failure of a pilot flying a Monosaupape Camel de- 
pended upon the pilot’s knowledge of motors and delicacy 
of control. A Camel would do a loop, a hand stand, a vrille, 


and a flop on the shortest notice of any machine we encoun- 
tered (up to the end of the war) except perhaps the Moraine 
Monoplane. Many of our good boys died trying to fly 
Camels. They were tricky ships, particularly for the first 
few hops—after that, with any luck at all one could carry 
on quite safely. A few, who became quite expert with them, 
were jokingly referred to as “camel-drivers.” One wild 
American at Vinets (a tester) used to take a Camel off the 
ground, go into a loop and land. Then he would take the 
ship off the ground in a chandelle, spiral upwards until he 
lost flying speed, kick over into a side slip and pull out just 
in time to save the bugler from blowing taps. We took this 
lad aside and, with tears in our eyes, convinced him that he 
was too valuable to the service to be such a deliberate and 
absolute ass. But, after all, the Camels were tricky air-ships. 


76 SINGING SOLDIERS 


It required both luck and technique to fly them and stay 
out of the graveyard. 

When we “ferried”? Camels from England to France, we 
went to Norwich (one of the English supply stations for 
aeronautical gear), by way of Paris, Le Havre, Southamp- 
ton, and London. We had to stop in London long enough to 
report to the Royal Flying-Corps Air Pool for orders and 
collect a few pounds sterling in lieu of railroad fare from the 
American Q. M. This required about two days. We always 
made the most of these two-day stop-overs. On one of them 
we made the acquaintance of Lady Astor and her sister. 
They were originally from Virginia and very sympathetic 
with the South. We talked about Richmond, Virginia, and 
Lexington, Kentucky, the horse-races at Churchill Downs, 
the Derby at Louisville. I happened to have two boxes of 
loaf-sugar in my musette bag. Lady Astor’s family had used 
saccharine for so long, they were most awfully pleased with 
the sugar. Next morning four American officers were invited 
to Buckingham Palace, where His Majesty the King pinned 
decorations on the breasts of soldiers. Now and then the 
soldier couldn’t walk, and sometimes an empty coat-sleeve 
answered the King’s salute. Later the American officers 
were presented to His Majesty and were so graciously re- 
ceived that they came away with a more kindly feeling 
toward the “divine right of kings.”’ All of this in Bucking- 
ham Palace. At tea-time we sat around a fire in St. James 
Square. The hostess and her sister sweetened the tea with 
loaf-sugar out of my musette bag. 

Across the street from the Astor Town House the British 
had constructed some temporary barracks—an officers’ club 
—built around the equestrian statue of some one. It was 
here that we encountered an English pilot named Christy, 


an ee 


SINGING SOLDIERS 77 


who had originally been attached to a flying-outfit on the 
Italian frontier. His outfit, as I remember, was equipped 
with Bristols. Christy had been a newspaper man before 
the war. His knowledge of copy values had given him the 
idea of writing a book on “flying-soldiers”—he said he’s 
read enough bad aviation tales. He felt it was high time for 
some one who knew the air and the job at which pilots lived 
and died, to belie the synthetically concocted claptrap we 
encountered on every hand. 

It seems that Christy was in love with one of the young 
ladies who had volunteered to wait on tables at the Officers’ 
Club in St. James Square. How charming a person she was 
and how unused to carrying heavy trays of dishes! She was 
naturally interested in Christy’s book—he had promised to 
let her read the chapters as fast as he found time to turn 
them off. When we left next afternoon to go up to Norwich, 
Christy’s sweetheart came to see us take our leave. Her 
violet eyes were misted from having just shed tears. They 
were very much in love, those two!—not as soldiers and 
war-workers loved, as a rule, but in a sincere, almost old- 
fashioned manner. Christy assured her he would fly care- 
fully—not low and slow, but high and fast, and wait for 
good weather to make a Channel crossing. 

“Tf you'll be a really good little girl, Pll bring you a sur- 
prise from Marquise.” 

“What, beside yourself?” 

“Why, the first chapter of the book, of course.” 

My orders said that I would fly from Norwich to an 
American field in France, by way of Lympne and Marquise. 
Christy’s orders took him as far as Marquise, the first land- 
ing-field on the French side of the Channel. We made the 
trip together from Norwich to Lympne, where we spent the 


78 SINGING SOLDIERS 


night at the Officers’ Club, in the twelfth-century castle re- 


stored by Beecham, the pill-maker. Next day we started 
across the Channel—it was a stormy flight—several ships 
turned back. With my usual luck I landed top side uP at 
Marquise and waited at the pilotage for Christy. | 

They gave him up as missing in the early afternoon. By 
nightfall a driving rain had turned Marquise into the most 
dismal camp in France. I remembered some lines from Alan 
Seeger’s poem, about being 


“Pillowed in silk and scented down— 
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep.” 


And then I thought of Christy—lost in the English Channel. 

I shall always remember how much opposed he was to 
wearing life-belts, and thank myself for having strapped one 
on him ere I took off for Marquise. What his book would 
have been like no one will ever know—for though His Maj- 
esty paid a royal wage in ribbons, orders, and honors, neither 
the King nor his horses nor all of his men knew the pattern 
of Christy’s book. That’s why his sweetheart waited so long 
for that first chapter from Marquise. 

Late next afternoon some ambulance-men extricated me 
from the remains of my plane. I had fallen in a lonesome 
little gully, not fifteen minutes’ flight from my destination. 
Lady Luck had been played too hard. Up to that time I 
hadn’t broken a wire or scratched a bit of wing covering. 
My memory is not clear on what happened during the next 
five semiconscious days, and I kept no diary. They were 
days of falling through space—grinding motors—barking 
archies—the storm-lashed English Channel—trying to fly 
through fog clouds—smashing struts—the ripping of wing- 
covering. Then out of all this chaos came voices speaking 


A 
fae 


SINGING SOLDIERS 79 


the English language—in an American manner. I was in 
the 45th Red Cross Hospital, St. Denis, France. A colonel 
of the Medical Corps was there, several other officers, a Red 
Cross nurse, and a negro orderly. My orderly’s name was 
William. We were Southerners—he was a long, lanky North 
Carolinian—I was a Kentuckian. 

William was the most picturesque liar I have ever known. 
What tales he told of his exploits in the army—the training- 
camps in France and America—of the troop-ships—the sub- 
marines—of North Carolina—and of his rabbit-foot method 
of recovery from shrapnel and mustard gas. 

In addition to his charm as a prevaricator, he spoke in a 
dialect I had never before encountered. His overcoat was 
known 2: “ma objercoat”—he said “gart”’ for got, “poot”’ 
for put, “‘mought” for might, and “pite nye” for pretty 
nearly. He had an absolute mania for face-lotions, hair- 
tonics, perfumes, soaps, and powders, uniquely classifying 
such preparations as “scent-waters, love-powders, and hair- 
oils.” He rather objected to the French hair-tonics, how- 
ever, saying that they were too thin to make his wool stay 
put and would not shine shoes like the “burgmont” oil he 
had used in North Carolina. 

The French Government had permitted the U. S. Army 
to house the 45th Red Croy3 Hospital in a school, built by 
Napoleon Premier, originally intended for the daughters of 
men who had been awarded the Legion of Honor. Left of 
the main building stood the Cathedral of St. Denis, a ro- 
mantic old pile of Gothic architecture, in which many of 
the kings and queens of France are buried, and on the altar 
of which Joan of Arc in 1429 hung her white armor and the 
sword she had worn in so many victories. 

There were 3,000 men in the 45th Red: Cross Hospital 


80 SINGING SOLDIERS 


(this number was not furnished by William), and the mem- 
ories of their suffering through those terrible days and nights 
are too sacred to recount. I do not know what I should have 
done without William. 

Mine was a tiny room—a room with a fireplace in it. Wil- 
liam sat Uncle-Remus-like, with his back to me, telling his 
Stories into the fire. Between the. telling of the fabulous 
yarns, William would sing. It wasn’t exactly singing—it was 
more like crooning. It was the legend of a suppressed race 
of black men, whispered to an obligato of unbelievably fer- 


vent music—music that made me hold my breath, lest I 


should lose the very smallest part. It was easy to record 


OLE ARK 


ole ark’s a mov-er -in, watch ’er go. Deole ark’s a mov-er- in’, 


Sol’ my ma-mydownat New Or- leans, Now we got to cook our own 


ON 


etc. 


ham and greens. Oh, de ole ark’s a mov - er- in’, etc. 


a ee ear nt eS ane 


SINGING SOLDIERS 81 


William’s songs—he sang them so often I knew them by 
heart. His version of ““De Ole Ark’s a Moverin’” was 
unique, involving a conversation with Captain Noah. 


Oh, de ole ark’s a moverin’, a moverin’, a moverin’, 
De ole ark’s a moverin’—watch ’er go. 

De ole ark’s a moverin’, a moverin’, a moverin’, 
’Cause Captain Noah tole me so. 


Sol’ my mammy down at New Orleans, 
Now we got to cook our own ham and greens. 
(Oh, de ole ark’s a moverin’, etc.) 


Sister, you bes’ change your mind— 
Hell’s a creepin’ up on you from behind. 
(Oh, de ole ark’s a moverin’, etc.) 


Save a seat for me inside— 
’Cause Noah knows I’se goin’ to ride. 
(Oh, de ole ark’s a moverin’, etc.) 


The usual expression of infinite faith found its way into 
all of William’s songs. He knew the more morbid of the 
traditional negro tunes, but for some reason he avoided 
them; perhaps in his childish way he knew that if faith 
could move mountains, it could also heal wounded aviators 
more easily than sour faces, potions, incantations, and hyp- 
notic passes. 

It’s all very well for “all 0’ God’s chillun” to have wings, 
shoes, robes, crowns, etc., and to dance all over heaven thus 
attired, but William sang a song about Jeing “one of God’s 
chillun”—a song that had more fundamental religious phi- 
losophy in it per line than many preachments have in them 
per thousand words. He called it “The Gimmie Song.” 


82 SINGING SOLDIERS 


GIMMIE SONG 
ARRANGED BY J. J. N. 


Verse 3 
Wl ATUUY, CEDUORIG OAT HRNAAA TENEGE LORDAGY WENTDG NREL GEE ——————SE 
a 
UNS. = Bee _ STA DTT Rio w A BOTST ITN 
I knows I’se one ob God’s chill - un, an’ he’s goin’ to gim-mie 


-g- 3 
what I needs. I knows I’se one ob de se- lect e - lect, 
3—— 
L_\/ + ——} ——} — + 4 |} —}—5—@ —g —P J 
. 2D is Pe a EE * 8 AE Os BS GLE 
rian 21 — es a te 
IF og ; i ee a -  e e O ST | 
a ma 
fe: 
ae ye 
oN 
AY, PAPE HUNTS 
| fA Ay Pe Wenn MNES SSIES TY Ree 
V poo 
Le RM ceca . ho- — MRE" DRS TSENG 


one ob de chill - un God al- ways feeds. Oh," 


SINGING SOLDIERS 83 


eed! 3) Ps '. 
et CBOE ORES 

Cy oe -___@@ _ 

| (an Wa Zegareces tide a Vale oon ee pies aera aac 


a 
DMC Oa a ae» 


why, tell me why, does you stand in de rain, Oh, 


{ ) i 
paF 5 Se ee er ere a en TS ee face 
va: on pean oon SE ed Dae eeena 
| (aaa De 'EoS0 (ln Sen Ee aoe laa a 
—- ; —?é Reine ele kal | 
4 r Co 
2S = ee Reena i Sg ARR eS es ee eee 
S—_ ae a = 
|___#_____# ___§ wer 
"a = bh a) 
1? Sea a ara aaa Rae ea Rome eres ae 
(Aaa ia es rea 
SU heieciei eat 


a 
v, 
if [i in Di “ae ee ee | ere 
‘aa LT SLA i ey a eee LO 
Sj Jl” /2>- Bane eee _- 2) y; 
ie ; 
a 4 4 
7 ae as ieee fs Se ON Pr wet I py ee Sy a a] Meir: 
bo, 2" ee ea bomen at Res tS Fe A eer [eR | ae 
WA: (Se Ret ae bay | eer eG [- 
LB FE 
C/ 


4 = Pen Gea 7 
(SS Se 


you is God’s chill-un, and he’s goin?to give you what you needs. 


a 
3 te i r 
NN ee fe OU kL Rane carat ad exmacan ont 
‘7’ — a ee for ia re i 
ASD. (ant feta AO et a Mnmmaransel Git z] ca 1 
ie OS as | A 

SV 2 a 2 ee RAT NESE al eae Been 
SS a seems ES zs cal 

i J wl = RECENT 
Ls a te > eared Ta 

a, 


84 SINGING SOLDIERS 


GimMIE SonGc 
I know I’se one ob God’s chillun, 
An’ he’s goin’ to gimmie what I needs— 
I know I’se one ob de select elect— 


One ob de chillun God always feeds. 


Chorus : 
Oh, why do you stand in de snow and de rain, 
Oh, why do you suffer from sickness and pain. 
Cause all ob you belongs to God, 
An’ he’s goin’ to gib you what you need. 


Notice how, in the chorus, the singer deliberately declared 
the therapeutic value of belonging to God. Although he ran 
out of really big ideas after the first verse and chorus, the 
other two verses are interesting in the pictures they present. 


Oh, Moses hit dat desert rock— 

De Good Book up an’ tells us so, 

While all de brethren stood hard by, 

Wonderin’ if de water would really flow. 
(Chorus). 


Parson says I’ll baptize you, 
So’s all your sins’ll pass away. 
He ducked me down mid shouts and prayers— 
"Fore God, dat wuz a happy day. 
(Chorus). 


Among the boys of William’s outfit, a song had sprung 
into existence which illustrated the effect of army discipline 
on the slow, easy-going Southern negro. Fighting a war de- 
mands movement, speed, and action—but most of all it de- 
mands something few of the Southern negroes of William’s 
type understood—instantaneous action. 


SINGING SOLDIERS 85 


SCRATCH 


a 
bh +t? keane 
eee 


VS i 
Scratch your lousy...... back, scratch your lousy 
> 
——— er mperrenie fe ys. | ae SET RS IE Pee) Ea 
Cts 2 Pa ea Pio) ina coe eee oe i 6 | 
D7 z io 
() esp i aa =—|— ‘aoe a- \-+__§ 
© ye 
ies eelmies 
62 eget ee Se eee a maa 
Po IR Piz edneemabeetinestee 8 oo a areata 
leo 4 <£G@ 
() 
Ve See ey amy ——S—_ Tas “Sar 2 a 
x eg pa covers Sees 
fan Vaal, — +} —-—-___+—_] 
WL [Pome on ies Tea a iS ae 
back. Pick up your gun and swing your pack, ’Cause 


a 
CWS inne ee Sa ees (ET 
— ————— ——— ie 
a ne |G 4 a 
-6- wv a 


i 


86 SINGING SOLDIERS 


The line “scratch your lousy back” had no reference to 
brushing off a stray louse or two. What it really means is, 
“pull yourself together,” “snap into it,” “both feet on the 
deck and do it NOW.” 


ScratcH Your Lousy Back 


Scratch your lousy back, scratch your lousy back, 
Pick up your gun and swing your pack, 

’Cause Kaiser William’s on your track, 

Scratch your lousy back. 


Scratch your lousy back, scratch your lousy back, 

Keep your head down in dis trench, 

Or you’re never goin’ to see dat little high brown wench, 
Scratch your lousy back. 


Scratch your lousy back, scratch your lousy back, 
Whenever you hear the rattlin’ of bully beef tins, 

You better grab for your gas mask and be sorry for your sins, 
Scratch your lousy back. 


As I recovered the use of my legs, I took to exploring that 
hospital, and, being rather a privileged character, there were 
few crannies or cubby-holes I didn’t get into sooner or later. 

One morning a colored lad who had been very badly 
gassed attracted my attention by waving a scrap of news- 
paper at me. In a very weak voice he told me that he knew 
a song I should surely add to my collection—it was the song 
about hanging various members of the Imperial German 
family on a sour-apple tree. This was immensely amusing 
to both of us. I laughed aloud, while he went through the 
motions of laughing without uttering more than a raspy 
gurgle. Our conversation was interrupted by a nurse and 
some attendants who came to take him away for some treat- 


SINGING SOLDIERS $4 


ment or other. As I left he asked me if I would get him a 
newspaper. I explained that The Herald, The Tribune, or The 
Mail were rarely found in St. Denis, but that I would try. 

When I came back next afternoon—a screen of sheets— 
hospital fashion—shielded him from view—he was “going 
west”—I had come too late—his song was “going west” 
with him. 

At the window near by I tore the single-folded French 
newspaper into little squares—and let them flutter slowly 
from my trembling hands. 

Across the garden just below, where the gloom of early 
evening was already gathering, one might hear the noise of 
clattering dishes, the evening meal in preparation. But some- 
how in my ears I seemed to hear soft voices gently singing— 

Don’t close dose gates, 
’*Cause I’m sure comin’ in. 


Don’t close dose gates, 
’Cause I’m sure comin’ in. 


* * * 


CHAPTER IV 


(November r1th, 1918.—Wealked in on the boys while they 
were at mess. Have to use two canes to make any forward speed, 
but that’s better than being strapped to a board in the hospital. 
At nine o'clock the radio operators intercepted messages from 
the long-wave station in Germany in reference to a possible 
armistice. Our major received confirmation of armistice rumor 
later from 45 Avenue Montaigne. At eleven oclock all the 
whistles and anti-aircraft batteries in Paris cut loose. We knew 
that the war was over for the present. We didn’t know whether 
to be glad or not. The first thing we talked about was our lost 
thirty-three and one-third per cent—the good lads who had been 
bumped off. All flying was called off after mess. About three 
in the afternoon the Gas-House Gang went to town (Paris) to 
help celebrate. They wouldn’t let me go—said Id get lost in 
the mob, ‘Fohnnie was appointed to stay home and keep me 
company.) 

(November 12th, 1918.—The boys took me to town to-night. 
Big Fohn Bailey took care of me when the crowds got too thick. 
I never experienced such a night in my life—the boys said that 
the second night was better than the first.) 


O—the Armistice was signed—the Germans coming out 
second-best, after nearly every one thought they had 
the war won two or three times. The next logical thing 

was the Peace Treaty and the payment of war indemnities 
—a Peace Treaty that would be another “scrap of paper” 
and war indemnities that would make the paying nations 
more bitter against the victors than they were before the 
war began. Then the victors had to pay their debts to one 


another, and finally, both victor and vanquished found it 
88 | 


SINGING SOLDIERS 89 


necessary to provide in some measure for the wounded, the 
disabled, and the fatherless. In short, the backwash had. 
to be raked away. Departments were established where 
bureaucrats dispensed the divers rewards nations usually 
confer upon their disabled defenders. Societies for the out- 
lawing of war sprung up, and the antimilitaristic member- 
ship, as usual, hindered the progress of peace among nations. 
War is a form of blow-off. As far back as we are able to 
make any form of reasonable investigations, we find that 
men drank intoxicating drinks or narcoticized certain brain 
centres by the use of any means they had handy—hunted 
wild animals—fought duels—laughed, played, danced, used 
profanity—went to sexual excesses, etc., as a form of relax- 
ation. Then when these forms of relaxation were no longer 
sufficient, they went to war. And the highly evoluted mod- 
ern man is not so far different from his prehistoric brethren, 
except that he goes through the silly procedure of signing a 
treaty, and then has to break it. The Hindu philosophers 
knew that war was a futile procedure thousands of years ago. 


Better live on beggar’s bread 
With those we love alive, 
Than taste their blood in rich feasts spread, 
And guiltily survive. 
Ah, were it worse who knows to be 
Victor or vanquished here, 
When those confront us angrily, 
Whose death leaves living drear. 
(Song Celestial— Bhagavad Gita.) 


Some smart person is either going to make the majority 
of this planet’s population think seriously about peace or 
find a substitute for war, and in the meanwhile we'll most 


go SINGING SOLDIERS 
probably fight, or get licked—and fighting in these days of 


modern warfare is an ordeal, from which one recovers slowly. 


* * 


As soon as we were sure the Armistice was signed, some 
of our boys put in for immediate return to the States. We 
who stayed in France have since discovered the folly of going 
home too soon. Those days early in 1919 were lean days— 
business was bad—jobs were scarce—and living was high. 
The ones who voluntarily stayed in France after the sign- 
ing of the armistice and finished up the job were smart and 
didn’t know it—at least, they didn’t know it at the time. 

In November and December, 1918, we flew many ships 
to the new front (the Rhine) to supply the squadrons there. 
We also picked up strays—ships we had been forced to land 
at some out-of-the-way field—ships that after a few hours 
of repairing were ready to go again. 

About the 20th of November, after demonstrating in a 
short flight that I hadn’t lost my nerve, orders were given 
me to pick up one of these forced landings at the little 
French field near Provins, and fly it to Vinets. Another 
pilot on our field was given orders at the same time to pick 
up a similar ship at Malmaison. We started out together, 
intending to motor by way of Paris, first to Malmaison and 
then to Provins. My partner conceived the idea of taking a 
girl friend of his along, and having me fly her to Vinets (my 
ship being a two-place Salmson). I have never known 
that girl’s full name—to me she was Irene, a Red Cross girl 
from Chicago, very pretty, very modest, and very anxious 
to fly. We called for her at a hotel in the neighborhood of 
the Place Concorde, my friend making a play of not know- 
ing exactly where she lived. He seemed to think I should 


SINGING SOLDIERS gl 


be impressed with the idea that she and he were only very 
casually acquainted, although it was an unimportant detail. 
After the first half-hour of the trip I knew this was not the 
case. 

We lunched at Brie Comte Robert. The piéce de résis- 
tance was a pheasant. What a dinner! The delicious fall 
air had made us ravenously hungry. We were at table easily 
two hours. From Brie Comte Robert we went to Malmaison, 
where my partner left us to fly his one-place Spad. At the 
Provins field I discovered that my Salmson was in bad con- 
dition. First, the motor wouldn’t turn up the required num- 
ber of revolutions (usually called “revs”), then the landing 
and flying wires were saggy. The ship had a sad-looking 
air about it. Irene began to lose interest in her proposed 
flight. I told my chauffeur to stand by in case she didn’t 
decide to fly, as it would have been unfortunate to leave her 
flat at that French field with no easy way of getting back 
to the city. After making numerous motor tests, Irene and 
I held a consultation. I thought the motor would turn over 
a little more in the air. But girls had been bad luck to 
pilots before. I had visions of a smashed Salmson with two 
people crawling out of it. No! I'd fly alone. 

The field was surrounded by trees on three sides and by 
a line of telephone-wires on the fourth. The trees looked 
like a softer thing to fall on if the motor went absolutely 
dead. So, after waving Irene good-by, I taxied out and took 
off in the direction of the lowest trees. Instead of reving 
up higher as the trees came closer, the motor fell off a bit, 
but it was too late to stop. I opened the throttle as wide 
as it would go, held my wheels on the ground until the last 
possible moment, swallowed, turned my head to one side, 


and pulled back on the controls with everything I had. The 


g2 SINGING SOLDIERS 


undercarriage skimmed the tops of the trees by such a nar- 
row margin that the wind from the propeller blew a gust 
of reddish brown leaves behind as I passed over. With the 
extra 110 pounds weight and the bad-luck idea the female 
passenger would have provided in the back seat, I would 
never have been able to get that ship over those trees. As 
it was, for the next half-hour I flew just over the top of 
French kitchen-gardens and backyards, skimming trees and 
church-spires by the narrowest of margins. I tried all the 
possible manipulations of the air and gasoline levers, but 
the motor missed and coughed as if it were just about to 
drop me in the middle of some Frenchman’s butter-bean 
patch. When I did finally land at the Vinets field, it was 
raining. One of the pilots permanently attached to the field 
asked me what the orders were on my ship. 

“According to the orders, it’s supposed to go to Collom- 
bey les Belles from here, but if I were you, I’d just back it 
out yonder in one of those far hangars and let it rot. It 
won’t take long.” 

I never saw our Red Cross friend after that. She must 
have arrived back in Paris safely, in spite of her disappoint- 
ment at not making a flight. The pilot who picked up the 
Spad told me later that he took her along on the supposi- 
tion that his ship would not fly at all—then he and the girl 
should have had the motor-car and the chauffeur at their 
disposal to tour about France a bit. He admitted, however, 
that the girl was not in on his plan. She was interested in 
flying, not touring. 

I should never have recounted this pointless tale if I hadn’t 
encountered a truck-load of singing colored lads at Troyes on 
the way back to Orly. Among their equipment I noticed 
musical instruments. The officer in charge of them (a very 


——— eo ati 


SINGING SOLDIERS 93 


dapper looking second lieutenant) told me that they had 
just played a performance at a near-by camp. We discussed 
the negro as a singing soldier. The colored officer was sur- 
prised that any one had gone to the trouble to record the 
random singing of the black boys. After I had sung him 
some of the tunes in my collection, however, he agreed that 
they were worth writing off. Among his boys there were 
several very talented singers—one of them a blues singer, 
who did the regulation St. Louis blues, etc., in a marvel- 
lously characteristic manner. But the regulation blues can 
be bought in every music-store in the land. 

I didn’t begin to take notice until the blues expert sang 
one of his own concoctions—a version of the “moving” 
blues. Instead of having the “moving-man sadness,” he had 
the ‘‘soldier-man sadness.”’ His third, fourth, and fifth verses 
were out of the picture. They had no connection with the 
war or the blueness of soldiering, but they were so naive that 
I could not refrain from including them in the text of the song. 

These are the verses of “The Soldier Man Blues.’”’ He 


began with the chorus, as usual. 


This is the principal motif of the “ Soldier Man Blues.” 


SSS 


got de mean man, mov- in’ van,  yel-low dog 


2 SSS ad 


can, Ho - ly hell, sol - dier man __ blues. 


Chorus: 


I got the soldier man sadness, the soldier man blues, 
I want to do what I want and I want to do it when I choose. 


94 SINGING SOLDIERS 


I got de mean man, moving van, yellow dog wid a can— 
Holy hell, soldier man blues. 


I’d rather be a pimpin’ fur one-eyed Kate, and do a first- 
class job at a cut-price rate, 
Than tote a gun in this man’s war, er drive a noisy motor- 


cycle side car. 
(Chorus.) 


For Lizzie’s a gal widout much style, but you should see 
those papas caper when she puts out her smile, 
While one-eyed Kate is full o’ speed and she bends in the 
middle like a broken reed. 
(Chorus.) 


Now I know colored folks is always tryin’ to find a way to 
git to heaven by slippin’ ’round behind, 
But Peter’s always standin’ wid a mallet in ’is hand, only 
lettin’ of de chosen enter in de promised land. 
(Chorus.) 
Steam train standin’ on de railroad track—couldn’t go for- 
ward so he had to go back, 
Steam train man wuz a singin’ sad, cause ’is engine acted up 
so bad. 
(Chorus.) 


Possum a hangin’ on a hickory limb—moon wuz a shinin’ 
down on him, 

Possum simply ain’t no use ‘less he’s a floatin’ in a puddle 
o’ pot liquor juice. 


(Chorus.) 


One of my wild-goose chases in the latter part of Novem- 
ber, 1918, took me down in the direction of Bordeaux. On 
the return trip I received an invitation to a very novel 
hunting expedition—a boar hunt, where the hunters rode 


SINGING SOLDIERS 95 


through the underbrush on U. S. Army tractors, armed with 
army rifles. The boar hunt was a failure—partly due to 
intoxicated drivers (who ditched one of the tractors) and 
partly due to the noise made by the exhaust of the engines. 
But the boar hunt brought me in contact with a colored boy 
(my host’s orderly) who provided my diary with some of 
its choicest notes. This is a specimen conversation: 

“Duz de lootenant s’pose dis here war will be over in 
*bout two weeks? I mean, will we be shuttin’ up shop and 
goin’ home?” 

“Oh, damit to hell, Elmer, I’ve told you a hundred times 
—NO!” 

“But, lootenant, I wants to git back in time to plant my 
sweet potato crop.” 

“Now listen, Elmer, once and for all, the war is over— 
has been since the 11th of this month,—but that doesn’t 
mean that you’re goin’ back to Mississippi, or wherever you 
live, in two weeks. What are you goin’ to do about all that 
barbed wire, open trenches, unexploded shells, dud bombs? 
No, Elmer, you’ll have to help ’em clean up that front.” 

“But, lootenant, I wants to git home so’s I can plant my 
sweet potato crop. An’ I always lays out my simlin hills* 
real early-like, so’s they mellow up ’fore I puts in de seeds. 
"Course I wouldn’t mind to putter ’round wid wire an’ 
trenches, but dud bombs, nossar! No dud bombs fur Elmer. 
I’m afeared I mought tickle de fusin’ contraption. No vine- 
gar poultice ’d ever cure Elmer} from dud bomb explo- 
sions.” 

He was shining a pair of boots and a Sam Browne belt. 

“?Course, I’m broke most 0’ de time, ’cause o’ my allot- 
ment. See, I got a wife. We wuzn’t married in a church- 


* Simlin—the negro word for “Simnel”—a type of squash. 


96 SINGING SOLDIERS 


house—we wuz married by de ring ceremony. I gives her a 
ring, then we’s married. When she wants to git unmarried, 
she hands de ring back. When dey wuz draftin’ at de Court- 
House, I tole ’em I wuz married—thought I mought git free 
‘cause of my wife. They asked me, did I ever give her any 
money? I says nossar—she gives me money, though. So I 
went to war. Now if it wuzn’t fur you all hepin’ me out, 
I’d be broke always. Yessar, my wife come to the train- 
shed to see me go away. She wuz wearin’ her new bee-gum 
hat—um-hum. I sho’ wants to go back.” 

It took Elmer all morning to make four beds and straighten 
up the room they were in, and all afternoon to do the wash- 
ing and shine the leather for the four officers he was assigned 
to as orderly. The officers saw that Elmer was well taken 
care of—and Elmer would not have traded his job for any 
assignment in the United States Army. 

La Courneau was a so-called recuperation and rest camp. 
Whenever there was no other place to send a contingent of 
men, they were sent off to La Courneau. It had originally 
been used by the French. A rumor was abroad that a con- 
siderable number of Russians had been finished off at La 
Courneau. They had mutinied. It was a mysterious kind 
of place—a place where anything might happen. There were 
many American officers in La Courneau—awaiting trans- 
portation to America or a return to their outfits. La Cour- 
neau bored them terribly. They were constantly A. W. O. L. 

The signing of the armistice was a signal for going loose. 
Bordeaux, 50 kilometres away, was not an uncheerful place 
the night of the 11th of November, but Paris went mad— 
and La Courneau went to Paris. During the week following 
the signing of the armistice, M. P.’s brought back whole de- 
tachments of officers and men to La Courneau. That’s why 


SINGING SOLDIERS 97 


the jail-house at La Courneau was so full. And it was a 
mean Jjail-house. Elmer warned every one away from it. 

~ “Don’t go in it, lootenant, even if you duz have to defend 
dose hoboes in de courts martial. Talk to ’em through a 
hole in de fence—dey’ll abbreviate yo’ life if you go in— 
dat’s a mean jail-house.” 

One of the keepers had a pile of brickbats handy. If an 
inmate stuck his head over the top of the palisade, a brick- 
bat would come sailing over at him. This was an unfortu- 
nate procedure; the inmates kept the brickbats that fell in 
the enclosure, and it is said they used them in several emer- 
gencies to the disadvantage of the guards and keepers. It 
_ was a mean jail-house. There were men in there for every 
crime covered by the “Manual of Courts Martial.” 

“Duz de lootenant feel porely ?” 

“Yes, Elmer, I’ve had a sore throat ever since that dumb 
damn boar hunt.” 

“T ’lowed dat boar hunt wun’t git nobody much. De 
tractor makes such of a noise—boar simply hauls his freight. 
I *lowed somebody ’ud come out o’ dat boar hunt second 
best. Has de lootenant tried wrappin’ up de throat wid a 
sock? I never has no miseries in my throat, ’cause I has me 
a “‘assifidity”’ bag, an’ cucumber-seeds fur kernels.” 

““Cucumber-seeds? Why, Elmer, what are you trying to 
tell me?” 

“Yessar, cucumber-seeds carried in de left hip-pocket is 
sho’ cure for kernels in de jaw and sore throat.” 

Elmer did carry both cucumber-seeds and an asafetida- 
bag. The bag had been hanging around his neck so long 
that it had darkened down to the color of his skin. His 
clothing smelled terribly of the fetid drug. All sickness to 
Elmer was a device of the devil. The cucumber-seeds and 


98 SINGING SOLDIERS 


the asafetida-bag were fairly good charms, but now and 
again the “‘voodoo”’ could not be overcome—Elmer would 
be taken down with a misery. He’d sing about it. 


Oh, I got a misery in my innards— 
Work ob de devil— 

Ole man devil— 

Oh, I got a misery in my innards— 
God’s goin’ to chase it away. 


But the miseries, the sweet potato crop in Mississippi, the 
wife in the beegum-hat (who was slightly outside the pale 
in not having the background of a church-house wedding), 
the wire, the trenches, and the dud bombs, were of little or 
no importance, when compared to the agonizing thought of 
sea travel. 

On the way to France, Elmer had suffered from a new 
kind of blues—the deep-sea variety. They had been set to 
music. And what blues! The tale of his trip to Hoboken 
and later to Bordeaux was an epic. He admitted that he 
did not understand what the draft was all about at the time 
of enlistment, nor did many of his fellows. They were sent 
north shortly after being outfitted—sent to Hoboken where 
they worked on the docks. Elmer said he rather thought 
that he’d been caught in some practical joke or other, when 
one day what seemed to be the warehouse, floated away. 
The “Deep-Sea Blues”’ tells this phase of the tale very ac- 
curately: 


Everybody in Hoboken town—everybody an’ me, 
Hopped upon a warehouse that was swinging around 
An’ went to sea. 

Oh, all day long I’se a lookin’ for trees, 

Lookin’ for sand, lookin’ for land, 


SINGING SOLDIERS 99 


Cause I’ve got dose awful weepin’, sleepin’, 
Got dose awful sailin’, wailin’, 
Got dose awful deep-sea blues. 


His lyrics were not consistent—they varied with the par- 
ticular kind of misery he had come down with, but the blues 
were always of the deep sea, and the deep sea was something 
he intended to avoid in his future life, 


“Ef God prospers me and gives me life, AMEN.” 


The unfortunate death and burial of some colored soldiers 
at sea had made a profound impression on him. This fact 
_had crept into the Blues. 


Soldiers down below layin’ cold and dead— 
Everybody ’cept me— 

Drop ’em over side loaded down wid lead— 
While we’se at sea. 


Oh, all day long, etc. 


He had one verse about “de devil ridin’ bout in a sub- 
marine,” and one involving President Wilson, but they were 
not recorded. The importance of the negro in the winning 
of the war made up the other verse: 


All dese colored soldiers comin’ over to France, 
All dese soldiers and me, 
Goin’ to help de whites make de Kaiser dance, 
All dese soldiers an’ me. 


Oh, all day long, etc. 


This last verse was no doubt invented after the arrival of 
Elmer’s outfit in France,—after they had had an opportunity 
really to find out what the war was about and to become 
conversant about such persons as the Kaiser. 

“An’ I ’spose dat de lootenant knows ’bout de battle- 


100 _ SINGING SOLDIERS 


DEEP-SEA BLUES 
ARRANGED By J. J. N. 


ev-ery-bod-y and me Hopped up-on _ a warehouse dat was 


swing-in’ a - round and went to sea. 
(we went to sea) 
‘a a 
Ves. ING WS a oes ean ae ree 
seid Se sca EUS GA SS SS ES 
fae aaa 4 ——__;_*__4 —____ ©, _| 
iF a Se ESS ME im 


SINGING SOLDIERS IOI 


(\_ + 
| 5— pe — ean See 


7 JS Sie na oP 


All day long I’m a look-in’ for trees, Look-in’ for land, I’m a 


look - in’? for sand, ’Cause I got dose sleep -in’, weep - in’, 


aT awe —iee Nea, Ps = = as SE A 
Wi pee Ses a eet 0 aan I 
Gt ) es a 


Sees ~ 
fee ee Eee Bie ew 
i SF 
l@\? 7 eed > [ See eee | 
Ch 2 re =! 
Gime eS a Es. Br eae Sl | 


102 SINGING SOLDIERS 


royal in the Officers’ Mess to-night? Yessar, but Elmer 
don’t git into no battle-royals. I didn’t draft myself into no 
army fur to git slugged in a free-fur-all. An’ I s’pose de 
lootenant done heared ’bout de new bunch o’ bozos in de 


*CAUSE I GOT DOSE AWFUL DEEP-SEA BLUES 


jail-house. One o’ them is in fur a new kind o’ charge— 
tryin’ to sell a locomotive to a Frenchman—it wuz a USA 
locomotive.” 

“And just let me have that grayish-looking book, the tall 
one—thanks, Elmer.” 


SINGING SOLDIERS 103 


“Oh, yessar, I done hear tell o’ dat book. It tells ‘bout 
how you can git to Leavensworth. An’ duz de lootenant 
know ef dandelion greens grows in France? I craves a mess 
o’ dandelion, particular ef dey ain’t got no cucker burs in 
’em. An’ lootenant, would it be askin’ too much .. .?”’ 

(Diary note. Romorantin. Liberty assembling and test- 
ing-field, December 12, 1948.) 

The Chicken Butcher (who gained his name from a pre- 
war vocation) had used his razor with too lavish a hand, 
and thereupon had been caused to do time in Black Jack's 
Jail-House at Jevres. (General John J. Pershing was known 
to some of the colored boys as “ Black Jack.’’) Life in Black 
Jack’s Jail-House had chastened the Chicken Butcher— 
chastened him more than one would expect. He had even 
(without knowing it) taken to practising a very efficient 
modern spiritual belief. He was curing his waywardness by 
continually affirming his desire to be good. The Chicken 
Butcher possessed the childish simplicity and naiveté so sel- 
dom found in the present cycle of the black man’s develop- 
ment. He had set his affirmation of righteousness to music 
—or perhaps it had set itself to music—if music it may be 
called. The tune covered what is known to musicians as a 


fifth. 


CHICKEN BUTCHER 


je 


Oh, jail-house key, don’t you ev-er lock me in. Oh, 
()\_ a 1 
7 erie a ~ 
mara ts eer st ——— 


: é 
jail- house key, won’t nev-er be bad no more. Oh, (etc.) 


104 


SINGING SOLDIERS 
Oh, jail-house key, 


Don’t you ever lock me in. 
Oh, jail-house key— 
Won’t never be bad no more. 


Oh, chickenfoot grass, 


You points three ways to heaven. 


Oh, chickenfoot grass, 
Won’t never be bad no more. 


Oh, turkey-wing brush, 

You brushes up dem ashes, 
Oh, turkey-wing brush, 
Won’t never be bad no more. 


Oh, dark ob de moon— 


Don’t you ever blight my life. . 


Oh, dark ob de moon— 


Won’t never be bad no more. 


Oh, garbage can— 


You smells to high heaven. .. . 


Oh, garbage can— 
Won’t never be bad no more. 


Oh, razor hone— 


You sharpens up mv slasher. . . . 


Oh, razor hone— 
Won’t never be bad no more. 


Oh, chitlin supper— 


Oh, chitlin supper wid beer. . . . 


Oh, chitlin supper— 
Won’t never be bad no more. 


Oh, lightnin’ bug— 
Don’t you burn your pants— 
Oh, lightnin’ bug— 
Won’t never be bad no more. 


i a 


SINGING SOLDIERS 105 
Oh, jail-house blues— 


How blue you can be... . 
Oh, jail-house blues— 


Won’t never be bad no more. 


On one of my last few flights to Collombey les Belles, I 
was forced to land at a French field about two kilometres 
from St. Dizier. The ground was covered with snow on 
which a thin skim of ice had frozen. I misjudged my for- 
ward speed in landing and ran into a hangar. The front 
flaps were closed. I took off one wing and damaged the pro- 
peller. It took the repair-department from Collombey les 
Belles four days to get my ship back in the air again. Dur- 
ing those four days I had many telephone conversations with 
the operations officer back at Orly. It was while waiting one 
day for a long distance connection with Orly that a Signal 
Corps sergeant presented Dog Star, and had him sing his 
“Jackass Song”’ for me. 

“IT don’t see why you-all wants to hear me sing—particu- 
lar, when it’s bout a mule. Course, ef de sergeant says I 
duz, I duz. Original-like, dis jackass belonged to a machine- 
gun outfit. He got hit but wasn’t lucky enough to die. 
Frien’ o’ mine, a Jug Band player, made up part 0’ dis song, 
an’ I made up part. No jackass ever set on no grenade. 
Now, a Springfield totin’ soldier might be dumb enough to 
do such of a thing, but a jackass knows what’s good fur ’im 
—jus’ like a colored man an’ a owl. Dey wuz usin’ dis mule 
around a dump o’ dis here German truck. One day mos’ 
near a whole box o’ potato-mashers went off. Dat Jug Band 
player ain’t never been no use since. Now, before some fool 
screwed a handle into one o’ dose grenades, dat mule wuz 
a whole hoss, wagon, and team, but when dat box o’ mashers 
turned loose, it was Kingdom Come.” 


106 SINGING SOLDIERS 


Jackass what wuz named ole Henry, 
Jackass workin’ for a soldier man. 
Jackass what wuz named old Henry, 
Don’t you go near dat powder can. 


Jackass what wuz named ole Henry, 
Jackass what wuz always late. 
Jackass what wuz named ole Henry, 
Jackass you bes’ haul yo’ freight. 


Jackass what wuz named ole Henry, 
Jackass see de mess you made— 
Jackass what wuz named ole Henry, 
Sot down on a hand grenade. 


Jackass when dis war is over, 

Jackass don’t you never mind. 

You'll be fertilizin’ clover, 

When dis treaty’s done been signed. 
Goo’-by, Jackass. 


His chant-like tune was limited to the span of only six 
notes. The singer (known as “Dog Star” from having been 
born during dog days) was from southern Louisiana, where 
the influence of Roman Catholic Church music is so gener- 
ally found in the songs of the negroes. 

Dog Star was detailed to barracks’ police, in place of a 
colored boy, who, several days previous, had been discovered 
standing behind a stove in a petrified state of drunkenness, 
from overconsumption of lemon extract. But barracks’ po- 
licing did not become Dog Star—he was essentially an out- 
of-doors man—a soldier around whom a legend had been con- 
structed. Among the members of his outfit he had become 
known as a “hard-fightin’ sonovabitch.” It was evident 
that he had never quite recovered from the hand-to-hand 


——————— 


> pg Os £ 3 r % = 
a Re De a5 >t 


SINGING SOLDIERS 107 


encounter that had gained him a decoration and reputation. 
When the regular barracks’ orderly recovered from the lemon- 
extract jag, Dog Star would go back to his mule-driving 
detail. 

He drove a span of very much scarred-up animals. He 
had named one of them “Fool” and the other “Dummy.” 
His conversations with these erstwhile machine-gun jack- 
asses were poetic. 

“Why, Dummy, what’s de matter wif you? Ain’t you 
done heared me tell you to jump up? An’ you, Fool, tighten 
_up dose traces. I’ll have to bounce a wagon-tongue off yo’ 
hollow head. Come on, Dummy, do yo’ stuff. Jump up in 
here, Fool.” 

The naming of these animals Fool and Dummy was 
thought to be in some way prophetic. His story was passed 
on by a “fed-up” machine-gunner, wearing a silver bar and 
an M.P. brassard. It seems that although Dog Star was 
an infantryman himself, he had very little respect for sol- 
diers who “toted” Springfields, or artillerymen (he called 
them “‘seventy-fivers”), or rifle-grenadiers. In his estima- 
tion, automatic-riflemen, bandolier-carriers, and clip-toters 
were the real winners of the war. He had even been doubtful 
of clip-carriers. Through a judgment too quickly formed, 
he had condemned members of his own team. 

During the later days of the war, Dog Star’s outfit was 
operating in a hilly stretch of country between the Moselle 
and the Sielle Rivers. Dog Star had been armed with a 
French chaut-chaut automatic. To him the automatic 
weapon was a “sho-shot” rifle. Although it was a crude, 
almost unlovely weapon, Dog Star never tired of shining, 
oiling, and caressing his sho-shot. 

The Boche had a method of regaining lost territory by a 


108 SINGING SOLDIERS 


process known as infiltration. Through the failure of an out- 
fit near by to maintain proper liaison, Dog Star’s platoon 
found itself exposed on the right. Here an infiltration of 
German infantry made the unprotected right flank bristle 


ee. ee ee ee 


ae. 


IF 
N 


STRAP UNH f 


with trouble. Through the early fall twilight Dog Star and 
his team made their way. Their objective was the remains } 
of a German trench system on the brow of a little hill some ; 

ie 


hundred metres off. They passed the battered remains of a : 
tank. It lay like some monstrous prehistoric turtle, where, f 
< 


Secu eg i 


SINGING SOLDIERS 10g 


to the delight of the enemy, it had slipped into a well-laid 
tank-trap. The French artillerymen, who knew to a metre 
the location of the trap, had pounded the once powerful 
mechanism into an inert mass of smoking junk. 

Dog Star’s last stand was on the rim of a small-sized shell- 
hole. Here he expended his ammunition against everything 
that moved. A shell fell near by. Dog Star looked for the 
other members of his team. He had used his last clip. The 


“IT HAD SLIPPED INTO A WELL-LAID TANK-TRAP” 


other members of his outfit had disappeared,—those bando- 
lier-carriers were yellow, goddam ’em! What could a soldier 
do with a funny French “sho-shot” and no clips! And then 
he suddenly found himself confronted by men in greenish 
gray uniforms—greenish gray uniforms and tub-shaped hats. 
He still held the useless chaut-chaut in his hands. It weighed 
less than twenty pounds, but backed up with his fiendish 
strength it was a veritable battering-ram. The ground was 
covered with mausers and unexploded grenades, but the 


TIO SINGING SOLDIERS 


blood of forgotten races of black savages surged in his veins. 
He was not a mathematician, a linguist, an intellectual dil- 
letante. He had reverted back to the tribesmen in the upper 
Nile Valley. He no longer understood the mechanisms of 
modern warfare, but his sense of aim was perfect—his desire 
to live, supreme. His thought of fear vanished—he fought 
as a savage. The clipless chaut-chaut gun swung in a wide 
circle, squashing tub-shaped hats down upon greenish gray 


DOG STAR AND HIS “SHO-SHOT” 


shoulders. But somehow one man couldn’t hold out long 
against seven. The butt of a Mauser hit Dog Star in the 
back of the head. He went down. And it was very suddenly 
night. 

The remains of the platoon and some strays from a 
machine-gun outfit arrived. They had witnessed the last 


SINGING SOLDIERS III 


few moments of Dog Star’s performance. It was through 
them that he gained his reputation—a hard-fightin’ sonova- 
bitch. A few tense periods of excitement followed their ar- 
rival. Several hysterical bursts of machine-gun fire. Fuses 
were pulled on a few potato-mashers—and silence! 

It rained later on in the night, and to Dog Star’s great dis- 
comfort, he found that he could not move the upper part of 
his body—something had happened to his neck. But the 
rain was very cooling. He tried to roll over on his back so 
that he might catch some drops in his mouth. In the morn- 
ing he was picked up by some stretcher-bearers. As the 
bearers passed a near-by shell-hole, they paused to look at 
two figures who seemed to be asleep. They were the other 
members of Dog Star’s team. They were sitting up quite 
straight—and very dead! The third member was a few 
paces away—lying face down. After all, those clip-toters 
were not yellow. The shell that fell just before Dog Star 
ran out of ammunition had caught all three of them. 

An’ what do you spose dose Hineys tried todo? Killa 
nigger by hittin’ ’im on de head. Now, if dey’d a cracked 
me on de shins, it ud been de same as dat mule and de 
grenades—kingdom come !”’ 


* - * 


As 1918 turned to 1919, flying days were very scarce. . . . 
To celebrate Christmas we had a grand party. ... Many 
guests came from far and near, knowing that a party at the 
Orly flying-field had never been known to miss fire... . 
After the first of the year some of our boys had orders to go 
home, that is to say they had orders to go as far as Bor- 
deaux (where they stayed a good long while). . . . Others 
went on extended leaves. . . . Those who remained at camp 


112 SINGING SOLDIERS 


ARRANGED By J. J. N. 
()_ of | = 
ae an of, MERE) Hee Zaye 
(ay CH REL BA ASS. —_—___;___—_© | ¢—_¢ ° 
SU SEEDS = il fire 


Jack-ass what was named Ole Hen-= ry,  Jack-ass 


() of | = ie ie = 
| 7 ees, hh DES a a eS A A ee 
A . a ot i 
valve = eee ee 
AS a 7 wheat = 

work-in? for a sol- dier man; Jack-ass what was 

7 tie AEA HE NEE OE 

AT a ge 
pa re = + -—__—_—_=-+-—-6 anu 4 

: oe oe 3 ° 
—_ 

(CE A Eoeaes geese omen as A) Sate Ray meay MeWNey HI sees 
tie | eae me eee ee Eas 
‘SL ee SET J ge 
(EEE, 9 aes, xe SE ML ARRAS F PT OS 


named Ole Hen -ry, Don’t you. sit on dat pow-der can. 


Se ee ee ee Oe 


en lee) 


SINGING SOLDIERS 113 


took advantage of non-flying days to make the trip to Paris. 

. Certain groups could have been seen night after night 
at the Opera Comique, The Apollo, the Folies Bergere, 
ee ee 

During the latter part of January (1919) one of our boys 
was reported a casualty. . . . He had been known as a wild 
flier, but a lucky one. . . . The gas-house mourned him. 
... The heartbreaking procedure of rolling up his belong- 
ings had just been assigned to one of his most intimate 
friends, when in he walked... . That was a signal for a 
celebration. . . . An orderly was dispatched to Choisy le 
Roi for a supply of liquor. . . . The boys were all called in 

. the party began... . 
* * * 

A mixture of rum, champagne, brown sugar, and spices, 
had been heated and sipped—steaming in half-pint tin cups. 
Then the mixture was mixed again. And again! And again! 
And again! Outside it rained. But with a certain amount 
of poking, the fire of French brickets had dispelled the pen- 
etrating cold. Inside it was so cosey! A speech was in 
progress—“Our Duty to Our Women Folk Back Home.” 
The phrases were not all coherent, nor the basic reasonings 
sound, but the boys “‘yehed”’ the speaker at every pause. 

“Baldy” had been talking about life. Life was a serious 
affair to-night. “Might go out to fly to-morrow and bump 
off’ —bump off and be no more seen. “Pour me a li'l, too. 
Thanks, Swede, ole boy.” 

The one who had been in the French Ambulance Service 
before he had transferred to the air always sang about this 
time. To-night he reverted to the ““We Wish the Same to 
You”’ song. 


114 SINGING SOLDIERS 


WE WISH THE SAME TO YOU 


To-day is Mon - day. To-day is Mon -day. 


Mon - day the _ bul - lits. Oh, you. dir - ty 


Ger - mans, we wish the same to you. 


“We WIsH THE SAME TO You’ SONG 


To-day is Monday— 
To-day is Monday— 
Monday the bullets— 
Oh, you dirty Germans, 
We wish the same to you. 


To-day is Tuesday— 
To-day 1s Tuesday— 
Monday the bullets— 
Tuesday the bayonets— 
Oh, you dirty Germans— 
We wish the same to you. 


To-day 1s Wednesday— 
To-day is Wednesday— 
Monday the bullets— 
Tuesday the bayonets— 
Wednesday the shrapnel— 
Oh, you dirty Germans— 
We wish the same to you. 


a an ee ee 


SINGING SOLDIERS 


To-day is Thursday— 
To-day is Thursday— 
Monday the bullets— 
Tuesday the bayonets— 
Wednesday the shrapnel— 
Thursday the mustard gas— 
Oh, you dirty Germans— 
We wish the same to you. 


To-day is Friday— 

To-day is Friday— 

Monday the bullets— 
Tuesday the bayonets— 
Wednesday the shrapnel— 
Thursday the mustard gas— 
Friday the dressing station— 
Oh, you dirty Germans— 
We wish the same to you. 


To-day is Saturday— 
To-day is Saturday— 
Monday the bullets— 
Tuesday the bayonets— 
Wednesday the shrapnel— 
Thursday the mustard gas— 
Friday the ambulance— 
Saturday the hospital— 

Oh, you dirty Germans-— 
We wish the same to you. 


To-day is Sunday— 

To-day is Sunday— 
Monday the bullets— 
Tuesday the bayonets— 
Wednesday the shrapnel— 
Thursday the mustard gas— 
Friday the ambulance— 


115 


116 SINGING SOLDIERS 


Saturday the hospital— 
Sunday the graveyard— 
Oh, you dirty Germans— 
We wish the same to you. 


“Now, listen, Perry, that was well done. But why in hell 
do you always have to drag in graveyards? You’re as bad 
as ‘Tombstone Smith’ and ’is bloody dog-goned monument- 
mill.” 

“Yeah! I’m a lone wolf. It’s my night out and I’ll have 
my howl. Yeah. Whoopee!” 


Here’s to good ole rum— 

Drink ’er down—drink ’er down— 
Here’s to good ole rum, 

Drink ’er down—drink ’er down. 
Here’s to good ole rum, 

That makes me feel so bum, 
Here’s to good ole rum, 

Drink ’er down—drink ’er down. 


The drinking-match had reached a point of frenzy. It 
was all because of the return of one who had been reported, 
“Down, out of control”! Indeed, a pilot had stepped from 
the casualty list, with a slight limp, a black eye (that was 
yellowing into recovery), an excellent aviation-clock (sal- 
vaged from the wrecked ship) and a whale of a good story. 

Here’s to good ole liquor— 

Drink ’er down—drink ’er down— 
Here’s to good ole liquor— 

Drink ’er down—drink ’er down. 

“Yeah, stop it! Yu simply can’t sing that song an’ use 
the word ‘liquor.’ Shimpossible. Won’t rhyme with nothin’. 
I’ve tried it many’s a time.” 

There was a discreet knock on the barracks’ door. 


SINGING SOLDIERS 117 


“Come in, if you can git in.” 

It was the colonel’s orderly—and a very sleepy-eyed or- 
derly at that. 

“Colonel’s respects to the lieutenants.” 

The pilot who had been wearing the Polish drinking-hat 
most of the evening assumed charge of the situation. 

“No, wait, boy. Did the colonel say ‘respects,’ or did he 
say ‘compliments’? We mush ’ave all the faks.” 

“Sorry, sir, don’t remember, sir. But bein’s it’s past two 
o’clock, the colonel would like to ask the lieutenants to pipe 
down a little.” 

“Now, boy, listen. I know we’ve been loud. We’ve been 
boisterous. Yea, verily, I say we’ve even been hilarious. 
But how do you suppose we can win the war if the enlisted 
personnel can’t remember what their commandin’ officer 
says to’em?” 

“Sorry, sir; I’ll mention what the lieutenant just said, to 
the colonel.” 

Oh, the colonel, he’s a jolly ole soul, 
Do we love ’im— 


Pll say we do. 
Oh, the colonel, he’s a jolly ole soul 


“Say, you inebriate bums, can’t you, for the love of God, 
batten down a little? I’ve got to test a lot of ships to-mor- 
row. An’ one of ’em is a monoplane. I need some sleep.” 

“Now listen, buddy. Don’t worry about sleep. After you 
fly that old monoplane, you may not need no sleep—ever 
think o’ that?” 


Three boys sat in front of the fire. The others staggered 
into bed. One lad found that the leaking roof had trans- 
formed his bedding-roll into a miniature lake—but Loco’s 


118 SINGING SOLDIERS 


bed was dry. Loco’d been knocked off a few days past— 
they hadn’t rolled his stuff up yet. Some one opened the 
stove-door. A square beam of rose-colored light fell on the 
wall. Baldy broke a long silence—— 

“An’ boys, I’ve come to a conclusion. Life is like a lake. 
"Round the side o’ the lake grows short grass and bushes. 
In the middle o’ the lake sits sex—floatin’ on a beautiful 
barge. An’ we’re all crawlin’ round in the short grass and 
bushes, tryin’ to git out there to ’er.” 

No answer. The pilot who had stepped out of the pages 
of the casualty lists with a limp and a black eye, thought a 
lot. But no one seemed to have an answer to Baldy’s con- 
clusion about life. 


VINS ET LIQUEURS. 


, — 
i a inh a baa i ae 


CHAPTER V 


N front of the Sanger Hall fireplace, on the night of the 
1gth of February, 1919, our major inadvertently gave 
out the news about closing Orly. We had flown many 

ships to and from Orly—Spads, SE5’s, the old wiggly-winged 
Sops, Salmsons, Moraines, FE2B’s, Caudrons, Libertys, 
Breguets, Voisins, Camels, etc. . . . Many ships had been 
flown into Orly, equipped with guns, tested and flown away 
to the front. . . . But now the hangars were nearly empty 
—a few ships remained. . . . These we would fly to Ro- 
morantin, put them on the million-dollar bonfire, and the 
job would be over... . 

We were unwilling to believe that our flying-days were 
over... . That the festive rum-cooking matches over the 
stove in our barracks (the Gas-House) would soon be his- 
tory... . But the hangars were nearly empty—the date 
for clearing out was set—we were to “ring down” on March 
the ist... . After that, no one knew just what... . 

The major was all for closing camp with a Danese ctrmere 
remembered the 1918 Christmas party.... Wed have 
another—Washington’s Birthday. . . . We'd invite all the 
Red Cross and Y. M. C. A. girls we knew. . . . We'd deco- 


rate the officers’ mess. ... We'd open bottles that pop 
and fizz. . . . We’d eclipse all other A. E. F. parties so far 
reported. . . . The major said that the outside edge of the 


sky was the limit. . . . 
German helmets, empty shell-cases, wicker projectile-bas- 


kets, etc., were to be used in the decorative scheme. ... I 
119 


120 SINGING SOLDIERS 


was supplied the assistance of another member of the Gas- 
House, four enlisted men, a camion, an extra bedon of gaso- 
line, and orders to return with the needed German parapher- 
nalia. ... (The major referred to it as a truck-load of 
Heinie junk to be used as “‘atmosphere.” . . .) 

Before noon the next day we, the junk-collectors, passed 
through the battered town of Soissons, headed for the bat- 
tlefields on both sides of the Soissons-Laon road, where 
Hosky, my Gas-House assistant, the second-in-command 
of our two-day expedition, had operated in the early days 
of the war as an ambulance-man with the French Field Ser- 
vice. . . . The enlisted men in our detail were revelling in 
a good time. . . . We had given them absolute orders not 
to touch anything having the slightest suspicious appear- 
ance—unexploded shells, hand-grenades, explosives, etc. . . . 

They worked diligently for the first three or four hours, 
sorting out the best camouflaged helmets, the best-looking 
shell-baskets, etc., but as evening came on, the desire to 
shoot off a few firecrackers became stronger and stronger. ... 

Hosky and I were examining a German field-telephone 
exchange, just under the brow of that first hill on the right 
_side of the Soissons-Laon road, wondering what the major 
would say if we brought it back to camp, when, all of a 
sudden, we heard an explosion, followed by a mighty and 
continuous roar. ... Hosky involuntarily stepped back 
into the subterranean trench system a moment. . . . Then 
together we hurried out to see just what had happened. . . . 

Outside it was nearly dark. . . . A long column of bril- 
liant orange-colored light shot skyward. . . . Our enlisted 
men could be seen not very far away, where, from a rather 
sharp rise in the ground, they were heaving sacks of some- 
thing onto a fire. . . . They went about their task with the 


fe eT a nee eee eres 
ae sf ees te sd i _——d 


re Es ee eee 


SINGING SOLDIERS 121 


greatest glee... . They were having a little war all their 
own—a superb Fourth of July celebration—a bonfire with 
potato-masher hand-grenades on the side. . . . Bravo... . 

In a deserted gun-emplacement near by they had discov- 
ered a cache of cans containing sacks of macaroni powder— 
the kind artillerymen use in big caliber field-pieces. . . . At 
first they had taken the trouble to open the cans—later they 
heaved the sealed cans onto the fire. . . . What sky-rockets 
those cans made when the heat melted the lids off and ignited 
the contents! One of the boys hit on the happy idea of 
adding a few grenades to the blaze... . He screwed han- 
dles into the masher-heads and pulled the fuses until this 
operation grew tiresome... . As Hosky and I arrived on 
the scene, the grenade-thrower pitched the remains of a box 
of masher-heads (it must have contained the makings of at 
least 75 grenades) down the hill into the gigantic bonfire. 

. In a very few moments the celebration was declared 
to be over, and all hands climbed into the camion headed 
for Laon, where we planned to spend the night. . . . 

As we leisurely rolled along toward the east, we looked 
back occasionally. . . . There was a bright orange spot in 
the direction of Soissons, and once we heard the faint crack 
—the belated explosion of something the boys had stowed 
on their fire. . . . The potato-masher thrower, later known 
to us as the grenadier, giggled as he swung his feet over the 
tail of the camion and wondered what and when we would 
Cat. ss 

An hour later we were in Laon, installed in the only hotel 
equipped for travellers... . It had been the Headquarters 
of the German general commanding the troops occupying 
the Laon vicinity. . . . The furnishings of the other hotels 
had been hauled away by the retreating Germans... . 


129 SINGING SOLDIERS 


After dinner Hosky went out on one of his characteristic 
scouting expeditions. . . . He returned in great excitement. 
. . . His discovery would not keep until morning. . . . He 
declared that he’d made one of the greatest finds of the war. 

. . I wanted to talk to the old hotel-keeper, but Hosky 
insisted. . . . Together we wandered around through little 
dark streets—crooked streets—aimless little lonesome streets 
—streets that had long known the heavy tread of the blond 
enemy from the north and east. ... Finally we stopped 
before a hole about 200 feet square. . . . Hosky assumed 
the role of a guide to Pompeii. . . . 

Before one of those long-range guns of the U. S. Navy 
got the range of this spot, it was a moving-picture show. . . . 
On the particular night the navy gunners figured out the 
exact range it was a moving-picture show full of German 
officers and men, having what the French might call a “trés 
bon evening.” ... Some fine young ensign over there 
in the direction of Soissons pulled the lanyard. . .. Look 
at the remains of the movie palace and figure out the rest of 
the story for yourself... . Moral. . . . Don’t let the navy 
get your range... . 

Back at the hotel we found our boys going over the cam- 
ion, putting everything into shipshape for the return trip 
next day. . . . On examination, we found the camion to 
contain a very fair catch of junk—notes were made of cer- 
tain things we must stock up on next day... . 

The following morning before breakfast the old hotel- 
keeper told a wonderful story of the German occupation— 
how the Germans came in a confident rush and left in a dis- 
illusioned hurry, and on their heels that gray October day 
came an army of blackbirds—American negroes, part of the 
370th U. S. Infantry. ... They were on their way to 


SINGING SOLDIERS ian 


Grandloup, a near-by town to the east, where they hoped 
to get another “swing” at a rapidly retreating enemy. . . . 
In the past the hill city of Laon had known St. Remis, Clovis, 
Queen Brunhilda, and Charlemagne, but the old hotel- 
keeper didn’t talk about them—he restricted himself to the 
age-old enemy—the blond enemy from the east and the 


CRO 
Lies 
za kde , 
LOT gt te ve Sr am Ten 
Kay) ON) li same 


me 


LONG-RANGE NAVAL GUN 


northeast. . . . How he came in a rush and left in a hurry, 
and on his heels those American blackbirds. . . . 

He told us of the spies who thrived in Laon during the 
war... thrived during the four years of occupation—and 
how a very spry shooting party one frosty morning in the 
Bois de Vincennes paid these spies for their trouble. . . . 
He apologized for the wine—the enemy had consumed the 
last bottle—they had left his once famous cellar quite dry 
—he knew the Pinard he served us was very bad, but he 
hadn’t had time to restock... . 

Before we left town we visited the cathedral. . . . In the 
square before the medizval temple of God, Monseigneur 


124 SINGING SOLDIERS 


stood, uttering a benediction on a little group of silent wor- 
shippers. . . . Monseigneur knew us at once to be Ameri- 
cans and gave thanks again for the coming of the blackbirds 
and the French... . 

As we started across that battle-scarred plain between 
Laon and Rheims, we stopped long enough to take one more 
look at the hill city. . . . The spires of the cathedral stood 
out boldly against the delicate blue of the morning sky. . . . 
The tiers of houses, rising one upon another, were like the 
circular sections of a giant cinnamon-bun, overbrowned 
from having stayed a bit too long in the oven... . 

We lunched at Rheims—took photographs of the cathe- 
dral and Jeanne d’Arc—popped some cobwebbed corks and 
took the road to Paris. 

Later in the afternoon, while Hosky and I were trying to 
decide on the decorative value of a German Maxim machine- 
gun, one of the boys (who had been regaling himself with a 
rhum-chaud in a near-by roadside café) told us that he had 
just enlisted a recruit... . A recruit indeed! The camion 
was already overloaded. . . . But, after all, a recruit was a 
recruit—bring ’im out and let us look at ’im. . . . We were 
advised that the recruit had ordered rhum-chauds for the 
entire expedition and would bargain with us inside or not 
Aaya a 

“Very well, now remember, the rhum-chauds do not come 
out of expedition-funds and the camion is already over- 
loaded isis. | 

The moment we looked at the recruit, we had visions of 
courts-martial proceedings. . . . He hadn’t been shaved in 
“hell knew when.” ... No two parts of his uniform 
matched. . . . He wore an old issue tunic, with sergeant’s 
stripes and a pair of breeches made of the shoddy material 


SINGING SOLDIERS 126 


issued to replacements late in the war. . . . His overseas 
hat was a complete give-away. . . . All of it except half an 
inch around the top was very much faded. . . . An officer’s 


“AND THE RHUM-CHAUDS DO NOT COME OUT OF EXPEDITION-FUNDS ”— 


colors had been ripped off of this half-inch, exposing the 
original olive drab. . . . He spun the rarest dog-watch yarn 
we had heard in some time. ... It seems that he was a 
chauffeur, detailed to drive two American officers from Paris 
to Brussels. . . . This was not unusual—we had driven to 
Brussels ourselves. . . . But our new-found friend had en- 


126 SINGING SOLDIERS 


countered difficulties. ... During the night of the first 
day out he had been hit by something and knocked bottom 
side up into a shallow gully. ... 

“T wuzn’t hurt, sir, not so much as to talk about—but 
the officers, sir, they wuz so banged about that after two 
weeks the doctors couldn’t tell guts from gear er gizzard. 

. With the help of some passers-by, I righted the car. 

. She wouldn’t run, sir, but with a little fittin’ out, I 
slept in ’er, quite comfortable. . . . One of the officers give 
me 50 francs, sir, to live on till we could git straightened 
around. ... I stretched it out as fur as it would go... . 
When I had only five francs left, I spent it fur a bottle of 
cheap hooch. . . . went out an’ sat in my car an’ got drunk 
all by myself... . Next day I exchanged the remains o’ 
the car to a Frog barkeep fur value received and got drunk 
agin. ... Sol says to myself—well, Joe, you got drunk in it; 
you got drunk on it; now you hit the road and foot it. . . .” 

So the recruit was really a passenger. ... What he 
wanted was a free ride to Paris, where he would join his out- 
fit. . . . The enlisted men had told him that I was a musi- 
cian and kept a diary of the soldier songs I heard. . . . This 
was pie for Joe. . . . He would sing me a Hobo song and 
he did—a song about Halsted Street, Chicago—a song that 
was worth its weight in gold... . 

After Joe had sung his Hobo song and the rhum-chauds 
had been paid for (out of expedition-funds), I gave up any 
idea I might have had about turning him over to the Assis- 
tant Provost Marshal when we got back to Paris. ... The 
A. P. M. in Paris was a friend of mine—I had known him 
when he was a second lieutenant of infantry. . . . He had 
extracted promises from me in lieu of favors granted certain 
enlisted and commissioned personnel of the Air Service. . . . 


SINGING SOLDIERS 127 


But our recruit, Hobo Joe, the King of the Road, would 
never go to Rue St. Anne, if I had anything to say about it. 
. . . Joe said he didn’t mind the army as long as it moved. 

_ But when it stood still, he was as unhappy as a cow 
with a mouthful of sour grass. . . . And Joe had wounds. 

.. But that’s another story. .. . 

We dropped our Hobo recruit off on the outskirts of Paris, 
near a subway-kiosk, with a click of a hundred francs and a 
promise to stay sober and dodge the M. P.’s. . . . (None of 
us took much stock in his tale about joining an outfit in 
Paris.) . . . It was raining as we turned off the Maux road 
in the direction of the Port de Fontainebleau—one of those 
rains that exaggerate the melodrama of Parisian nights. 
... Joe let himself down from the back of the camion, 
walked over to a lamp that decorated one of the street 
islands, pulled himself up to attention and stood at salute 
until we were out of sight. . . . We never saw him again.... 

We arrived at camp about 9.30 p.m... . No explana- 
tions were necessary. .. . The remarkable catch of junk 
was a perfect alibi. . . . The German helmets were turned 
upside down and used as lighting-fixtures. . . . The small 
shell-cases were washed and used as containers for candies, 
nuts, and table-decorations. ... The jazz band played 
behind a screen made of wicker shell-baskets—set off with 
garlands of mimosa, imported from the south of France. .. . 
A camion-load of champagne was knocked off in pledges and 
healths. ... 

During the party the major told me about the University 
plan. . . . He said I might join a group who were going to 
attend the Université de Lyon for the next four months. . . . 
He said that I might study at the Conservatoire, the Uni- 
versité, or wherever I liked, with full pay and allowances, 


128 SINGING SOLDIERS 


except my additional 25 per cent for flying. . . . All I had 
to do was to sign my name. . . . Needless to say I signed.... 
* * 


This is Joe’s song (the tune was unimportant): 


Oh, I’ve panhandled about Chicago town, 

I’ve panhandled from Halsted Street to Puget Sound, 
I’ve fingered the roll and made many a click... . 
But never used a jimmy ur a loaded stick. 


Chorus : 
Oh, it’s hit the road, you lousy bums, 
You stiffs and weary Willies. 
You walk and sleep, you sit and doze, 
You hooligans and tillies. 
For tho’ you’ve worked the Central, 
The Katy, and the Soo, 
There’s no place like Chicago 
For bums like me and you. 


Now, when it’s spring in Halsted Street 
And you get the itching in yer feet, 
There’s always pimps with lots o’ kale 
Fur scabbin’ jobs they got fur sale. 


Chorus : 
Oh, it’s hit the road, etc. 


Sometimes in Halsted Street it’s hot, 

But up in Soo country it’s not; 

And there ain’t no bulls nur coppers there 
To beat your wangle and give yu the air. 


Chorus : 
Oh, it’s hit the road, etc. 


Oh, lemme have a skin full 0’ good red booze 
An’ I’m king o’ the road till I walk out o’ my shoes, 


SINGING SOLDIERS 129 


Cause I never spilled a squeal nur lightened half on a touch 
Nur let a bozo bo hang high and dry in dutch. 


Chorus : 
Oh, it’s hit the road, etc. 


Now, when I lay my bones to rest 

Bury me with the hobos I like the best— 
Jack, the Lifter, Frank, and one-eyed Ed... . 
Bury me with my pardners when I’m dead. 


Chorus : 
Oh, it’s hit the road, etc. 


For tho’ we’re scabby and lousy and old, 

The truth of our miseries has never been told. 
We wangle fur a little and touch a lot less 
And damn seldom clik much real happiness. 


Chorus : 
Oh, it’s hit the road, etc. 


CHAPTER VI 


N Lyon, six of us—five aviation officers and a lieutenant 
of artillery—moved into an apartment in the Rue des 
Ramparts d’Ainy. The French woman, who owned the 

apartment and her servants remained and became responsi- 
ble for the table, the general caretaking, etc. We lived like 
princes—breakfasts in bed—lunches and dinners served in 
the grand manner, with appropriate wines and liqueurs. 
When our hostess ran out of anything, such as sugar or 
coffee, we procured it at a very low rate from our commis- 
sary. Indeed, we lived on the fat of the land. 

We were supposed to go to school—some of us did, but, 
as a rule, we toured France—southern France, the Rhone 
Valley, or the country off to the left in the direction of Aix 
les Bains, the Italian frontier, or Switzerland. It was a 
hard war—that battle of Lyon (Rhone). 

We had been in Lyon but a few days when I was reminded 
of the death and burial of a flying-partner of mine—a boy 
from a very fine family out in the States—the same boy 
who planned to give me the address of his sweetheart while 
we were at sea on the old Covington. His mother wrote me 
from London—soon she would arrive. She had come from 
a town in Ohio. She intended to visit the grave of her son. 
I had helped him die, but that’s not an easy thing to ex- 
plain to a mother. He had fallen a victim to his own imag- 
inings—he had brought about his own death through pic- 
turing himself “bounced off.” 

130 


SINGING SOLDIERS 131 


One evening in the early fall of 1918, I suggested a hair- 
cut for both of us—a really high-class French hair-cut, with 
lotions, perfumes, tonics, etc. 

“Fair-cut, hell. Come on, boy, I’ll spend the money on 
some good drinkin’ liquor. Hair-cuts don’t become aviators, 
anyway. Why, I’m going to be bounced off in a few days— 
what’s the use of wasting the money on French barbers !”’ 

And now his mother would soon be in Paris. She would 
rest there a while and then visit the grave of her son—if I 
would help her find it. 

About two weeks before the crash, he’d given me the ad- 
dress of his sweetheart—but the discreet answer to my note 
was signed by a married woman. Strange! A year seemed 
to be a long time in the life of war-time love. 

Soon now his mother would be in Paris. I would be 
granted leave. We would visit the grave (if I could find it). 
She would shed a few tears, take some pictures. I would 
recite the tellable details of her son’s army life. And she 
would return to her home in Ohio. 

We had been hedge-hopping, in spite of a ground mist, 
when he took the top off a brick chimney with the under- 
carriage of his plane. I had trouble finding a place to land— 
vineyards, haystacks, and cut-up fields everywhere. When 
I did get back to the place where he had fallen, some ambu- 
lance-men from a near-by anti-aircraft emplacement had 
taken charge of his remains. He had died a few moments 
after falling. 

Colored boys made up the burial squad. The aviator was 
the last detail of the day. Burial squads (made up of col- 
ored boys) never worked at night—never! I might have 
got away before dark, but I heard part of a song sung by 


one of the grave-diggers. He sang about having a “grave- 


132 SINGING SOLDIERS 


999 


diggin’ feelin’”’ in his heart. I remained and took it down 
in detail. 

The smashed airplane had caught fire. By nightfall only 
a heap of tangled, grayish wreckage remained—tanks—in- 
terplane wires—the metal parts of the undercarriage—strut 
fittings—the aileron controls—and the engine, from which a 
thin column of gray smoke slowly trickled skyward. 

This is the song the boys sang as they worked at burying 


the fallen aviator: 


I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— 
I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— 
I shivers and shakes in my soul— 


When I looks in dat big black hole— 
I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart. 


I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— 
I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— 
Don’t bury dose boys so deep in de ground— 
Dey has to hear Gabriel’s reveille sound— 
I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart. 


I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— 
I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— 
When I looks in dat grave I gets me a chill— 
’Cause I knows if I gets in, I has to stay until— 
I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart. 


I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— 
Dve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart— 
Everybody died in de A. E. F., 

Only one burial squad wuz left?— 

I’ve got a grave-diggin’ feelin’ in my heart. 


And now it’s springtime of another year. The Frenchman 
has repaired his chimney and there are flowers in every 


SINGING SOLDIERS 133 


hedgerow. Soon to the legend of the fallen aviator will be 
added the visit of the mother, who came from her home in 
Ohio to visit the grave of her son. 


ae ss 


A 
Bar 


SS ES 
a 


cy Wes 
ee 


I’VE GOT A GRAVE-DIGGIN’ FEELIN’ IN MY HEART 


(In the notes of this song, I find the word “notion” used 
with the word “feeling.” The notes, however, are very in- 
distinct, and it may be the word “notion” was written on 
the sheet before I took down the details of the song.) 


SINGING SOLDIERS 


134 


GRAVE-DIGGERS 


Ras 
in my 


—— 
feel - in’ 


lis 
i] 
re) og 
§ 
2 
Ml 
i é 
i : 
N g, 
| 
Ue 
Ree 
: 
TNE 


in my 


2 


- in 


I got a grave - dig-gin’ feel 


? 


SS 
heart 


: 

a 
ill ! 
| 5 
ii R 


5 at 
7 


\ 


in my soul 


and shakes 


I shiv-ers 


heart. 


SINGING SOLDIERS 135 


Vw ~ me a 
Ty | TL LE LAE ET EI Bas fe) eae Py a ae ge 
if cay <2 a (ol PSS oe Pa & Re D a Reg b et 
| faw —_- 5 is" tae Piha a 
ST. =>" -_ = yf 


When I looks in dat big black hole. I got a 


a —— — — ee 
= i is A | 
6 ane aS 4 

iis La aa $f 


grave - dig-gin’ feel - in’ in my heart. 


LYON (RHONE), FRANCE—SPRINGTIME-— Ig1g 


“Bin? Bin? Boy, I’se done bin. An’ I’m goin’ back— 
as soon as dis here ghost act is over. You can burn my 
spiral putties. But, boy, I was seein’ double. Four flights 
under de sidewalk—Cut my throat! What a jamboree! 
Dey calls it ‘De Celestian Bar.’”’ 

“Aw, hell! Ain’t no such thing—it’s ‘De Café des 
Célestines’ !”’ 

“Pouff you—café! Hell! You wouldn’t know a café if 
you wuz to see one. Listen, Bugboy, dat’s a bar—and what’s 
more, it’s a ‘celestial bar.’” 


136 SINGING SOLDIERS 


“How'd you git in dat place? How’d you find it?” 
“I went wid a couple a frog friends 0’ mine and dis here 
high yellow boy what takes care of baggage. And did we 


walk de dog? Cut my throat! Did we walk de dog! Why, 
man, dey passed out refreshments I ain’t never tasted since 
I been put here. An’ all I did this mornin’ was to drink a 
glass o’ water, and boy howdy! I was pres-i-dent of France.” 

They were making up in the back rooms of an unused 


oN 
Nas 


SINGING SOLDIERS 137 


Café Chantant. The theatre and the café were set in the 
middle of a very charming little garden on the outskirts of 
Lyon. The Y. M. C. A. had taken over the Café in order to 
properly house the travelling army shows. 

These army shows were the result of an almost divine 
hunch. They were immensely amusing—they diverted the 
minds of boys who could not go home (for lack of ship- 
space), gave others something to do, and even developed 
talent that might never have seen the light of day. 

The performance we witnessed on this particular night 
opened with the often used jazz band and dribbled through 
a rather bad lot of worn-out buffoonery. They did the old 
sentry act—an American private walking post. He carries 
an old short-barrelled rifle with a length of rubber hose 
slipped down over the end. As he walks, this length of hose 
waves up and down in the rhythm of his gait. It is supposed 
to be night. Some one approaches. 

“Halt! Who goes there?” 

“Troisieme batallon mitrailleuse—j’ai carte d’identite. 

“Pass, Frog !”’ 

Another is halted. 

“Well, now, I say, my dear fellow, is it really in order for 
one to tell one’s name?” 

Pass, Limey!” 

Another attempts to pass. 

“Halt! Who goes there ” 

“Who the hell wants to know?” 

“Pass, Yank!” 

But we had applauded this before. 


Then, though we didn’t know it, the thing we had been 
waiting for all evening happened—the Ghost Act—ten ne- 


138 SINGING SOLDIERS 


groes, one soloist and nine singing ensemble. They repre- 
sented the ghosts of boys who had been bounced off in the 
war. They were costumed like members of the Ku Klux 
Klan. The effect was excellent—white shrouds—blue lights 
—sepulchral voices. The soloist stepped forward and con- 
fidentially sang one line to the audience. 


My mama told me not to come over here— 


Then the ensemble joined the singing: 
But I did, I did, I did. 


The soloist continued: 


My mama said they surely would shoot me dead— 
An’ they did, they did, they did... . 

I tried to keep my secret from every shot and shell— 
But ’long come one that made me tell. . . . 


The entire group concluding with: 


My mama told me not to come over here, 


_ But I did, I did, I did. 


Other verses: 


My papa tole me not to come over here, 
But I did, I did, I did, 

My papa said not for me to get myself shot, 
But I did, I did, I did. 

Draft come along—in I went, 

When de war got hot I was sent. .. . 

My papa told me not to come over here, 


But I did, I did, I did. 


My pastor told me not to come over here, 


But I did, I did, I did, 


SINGING SOLDIERS 139 


He said, “Now, Sam, they surely will get your ham,” 
An’ they did, they did, they did... . 

When de whole German army passed over my head— 
I knew I was lyin’ on my death bed. .. . 

My pastor told me not to come over here, 


But I did, I did, I did. 


Nothing short of pandemonium broke loose—men yelled 
—girls screamed—French visitors, not understanding one 
word of this strange funereal procedure, were decidedly 
frightened. The song was, of course, repeated—with almost 
the same results. If the Café des Célestines had not been 
calling so loudly, the performance might have gone on all 
night. I am convinced that this song produced one of the 
best laughs of the war. 

Odd-shaped little patches of moonlight fell from the edges 
of buildings as we turned to go back into the city. Crossing 
the Rhone we could see the grayish white of the new Presi- 
dent Wilson bridge—faintly outlined against a lead-colored 
background. The river scarcely seemed to move at all. Re- 
flecting the lights from the bridges, it was more like oil be- 
sprinkled with fireflies. Place Bellecour was quiet—the 
flower-stands had their windows fastened down—the Pa- 
villon d’Orchestre was dark. Far across the top of the spires 
and chimney-pots we could distinguish a faint light in the 
tower of the Observatoire, and, higher up the hill, Notre 
Dame de Fourviére—“like a fairy-palace hanging in the 
sky.” 

There had been a promise of dancing in the Y. M.C. A. 
Canteen in the Place Carnot. It proved to be only a prom- 
ise. The jazz band was there, but there were no dancing 
partners. The jazz band of eight players (all colored) did 
their stuff, dance or no dance,—and how they did mourn 


140 SINGING SOLDIERS 


GHOST SONG 
ARRANGED BY J. J. N. 
aw, 3 3 


My ma- ma told me not to come o - ver here, but 


| Le \ On J fg eB a ee ee ee 
CES a a: Sea MS REMAN SNUREGoRe es 
SSA ey <s Cer oe 
eee ms iw haumeamenniiwcemecscr: cote 
— : 
P.GS rar. ee s SE SS BR EE & HE SPs ES A 
'fa 
AS co —— 
I did, I did, Loetcid, My ma-ma said they sure-ly 
4 ae ; 
U7 ar a te 
Cyt ae mca 
NS) — oe oT A a a, 
6 
~~ ~~ 


; = Ht (Se ES MT b MEAG 2 A 
(arm SS 
would shoot me dead, and they did, they did, they did. I 
() # Pi, 
M02” See “eT eee “PE eB) 0 2" ae ES Tess ke 
Po | a & DR Be SA (ES ENE Wa eS Ey" SOS es Pe RS 
ae i a os 


a i 


SINGING SOLDIERS 141 


aX. = = 
Cara i es a SES D he —e— a 9 — I2ISy Baa Pena Ez 
Bee ge Fase 4 -—++, +, fogs 
2) Ji re a a Xia Rl? PaaS a 
Ct se hs 


tried to keep my se-cret from ev - ery shot and shell, but 


Lan \ ———O eee 

i] ea S = 

ta see 
()\ # ———— 

7 4 5 —o—__f EE A 
A Li fo Tie I) Ae Se ee {fs —+—_P 

| fay A a ee ae GS eee ee) BS Fie ss MT ao 

LN erence = sae RRs a ee Rae ae Sere ee 


‘long come one that mademe tell. Oh, my ma-matold me not to 


fee oy Smo ini Ee ee Iv Gr eee SAT 

‘ii bg i Ee ee ee me = 

Se ee ee wv gy ix 

oo ea oe Sig amas eres aces aot eee | 
A 

[ Rewer: ae ene Ae es Es Na ee oF 
@ aS P|} a} —— e Gi mie oes See oO 


come o - ver here, but I did, Te didsy Lie .cid. 


142 SINGING SOLDIERS 


through those blue Midnight Blues! All the boys except the 
banjoist would stop now and then and sing to the banjo’s 
droning ‘“‘chum-e-um-chum-chum.” The pianist sounded off 


about having some wrinkles in his empty belly. We gathered 
up a collection of five-franc notes—“ presented” them to the 
leader, and started to take our leave. The colored boys were 
overjoyed at our token of appreciation—they would do one 
more tune and “call it a day.” The banjoist struck a chord 
—and a superbly balanced double quartette sang unaccom- 
panied: 


SINGING SOLDIERS 143 


JAIL HOUSE 
ARRANGED BY J. J. N. 


Chorus 


Pa-pa’s in de _ jail house from shoot-in’ of de dice. 


a Pi es, ion Bs 
Fe p———t ir 
(Oa a a La as at 


Sher - iff told ’im once but he would-n’t tell ’im twice, So 


oN 
2 See rn eae Rea ee _ aes Been eee 
(ee > (2 Se ear Bees See ee 
aay 4 ¥ —_-___§—____—_$ Be ees GN ees 
REESE a Jee EE JST SESE ES Ge 
oN 
(PRL 2 as ae A a eT Og 
tity > 2a ee ee eT a a 
Lh 20 ¢ SU 0 <n eee A hs ” eee ee 
(ULL ut LS ene Ee eT bo! 
hn Verse 
¥ 2S ST 2 SD el ET Sees 6 KET Ey RE b Pe ee 
(2 2 2 #8 _ _##— f° Q GP Peres Pie Ree 
pa-pa’s in de jail house now. I don’t wantto do no 
—— = ee 
v 4 area A ae Ee ee se 


TS RNG DEEN DI" AOC Os ATE Re ATT eras 
~ Zz s——H am 
=, Pe Ra 

apo Same ea OT 1 wees 


144 SINGING SOLDIERS 


now. Ser - geant, won’t you have a lit - tle 


D.C 
’. a  ) fay er rey +—| 
(oe — 
le ras Noe ame ed 
pit-y on me, Pa-pa’s in de jail house now. Oh, 


SINGING SOLDIERS 


Chorus : 


Papa’s in de jail house from shootin’ of de dice— 
Sheriff told ’im once but he wouldn’t tell ’im twice, 
So—papa’s in de jail house now. 


Oh, I don’t want to do no more K. P., 

*Cause papa’s in de jail house now... . 

Mr. Sergeant, won’t you have a little pity on me? 
*Cause papa’s in de jail house now. 


Papa’s in de jail house from shootin’ of de dice, 
Sheriff told ’im once but he wouldn’t tell ’im twice, 
So—papa’s in de jail house now. 


Goin’ to take my shirt to swab out my gun... . 
’Cause papa’s in de jail house now... . 

Hope to shoot a hole in a nice fat Hun... . 
*Cause papa’s in de jail house now. 


Papa’s in de jail house from shootin’ of de dice, 
Sheriff told him once but he wouldn’t tell ’im twice, 
So—papa’s in de jail house now. 


I found a nail in my corn beef— 
Papa’s in de jail house now— 

My belly’ll turn me into a thief— 
’Cause papa’s in de jail house now. 


Papa’s in de jail house from shootin’ of de dice, 
Sheriff told him once but he wouldn’t tell ’im twice, 
So—papa’s in de jail house now. 


Goin’ to send my girl a souvenir, 
*Cause papa’s in de jail house now— 
It’ll be some German major’s ear, 
Cause papa’s in de jail house now. 


145 


146 SINGING SOLDIERS 


Papa’s in de jail house from shootin’ of de dice, 
Sheriff told ’1m once but he wouldn’t tell ’im twice, 
So—papa’s in de jail house now. 


The arrival of a group of colored soldiers who were ex- 
tolling the Café des Célestines in unnecessarily loud voices 
reminded us that these boys had to take the night train to 
Dijon in order to play their engagement next day. We saw 
them last as they clambered sleepily across the Place Carnot 
in the direction of the railway-station, the bass-fiddle player 
bringing up the rear, like some fantastic somebody in a fairy 
tale, making a quick getaway with a fabulous bag of plunder. 


CARNIVAL IN THE VALLEY OF THE RHONE 


The score of l’Enfant Prodigue was on the piano-shelf be- 
fore me. My fingers played through Debussy’s lovely pas- 
sages, but my mind was far away. It was Carnival in the 
Valley of the Rhone. Vagabondia had the best of me. I had 
visions of a broad river flowing majestically past medizeval 
cities—Avignon, Tarascon, Arles, Beaucaire, Villeneuve les 
Avignon. The walls of my studio in the Rue du Platre 
leaned in at the top. Pass or no pass, I had to go—to- 
morrow, for sure—perhaps, even, to-night. Would I ask for 
a pass? Passes involved military police. The lack of passes 
might involve courts martial. Why not give up my uni- 
form and go as a civilian! My friend the “Purveyor to 


SINGING SOLDIERS 147 


Renegades” would help me. He would outfit me as a French 
civilian. I would stay two weeks if I had luck—two spring- 
time weeks in Provence—two weeks of Carnival in the Val- 
ley of the Rhone. 

Men from all walks of life made up the United States 
Army—men from the best families—from the greatest uni- 
versities—from the shops—from the hills—from the farms. 
It was impossible to assemble two million men and not have 
it so. They were not the kind of people who lend themselves 
to “big-stick”” methods. Some tin-hat higher-up failed to 
make this discovery—that’s why so many men came home 
cursing the service—and still curse it. That’s why nearly 
all Military Police (except marines) were so unpopular. 
Marines have military policing down to such a science. 

My friend the “purveyor to renegades” was, among other 
things, a socialist. The trade he carried on was not particu- 
larly an illegal one—he merely supplied you with a costume. 
You paid in advance and left your own clothing as a deposit. 
He had a room full of mail-boxes. One might receive one’s 
mail at his establishment for ten francs by the year. The 
patrons of this branch of the business were mostly females. 
Then there was the information department (which, very 
possibly, bordered onto a blackmailing service), and, finally, 
a directory of names and addresses. The business was car- 
ried on under the guileless name of a “‘public bath-house.”’ 
Indeed, there were a few baths—and a private bar. What I 
feared most was that the authorities would end the career 
of this “public benefactor” while my uniform was on de- 
posit. This might lead to complications. Nevertheless, that 
night I was on my way—travelling as a civilian. Early the 
next morning I was far down the valley of the Rhone—there 
were wild strawberries, blooming in the fence corners and on 


148 SINGING SOLDIERS 


the sides of the roads—fraises au bois—violets, flowering 
shrubs, and fruit-trees. For it was Carnival—Carnival, in- 
deed, in the Valley of the Rhone. 

I had come part of the way on the P. L. M., walked a bit, 
and concluded the journey by water. The Rhone was a 
silent river that morning—its silvery colored surface chang- 
ing now and again into odd-shaped multicolored patches, as 
if oil had been poured upon it. Approaching Avignon from 
the river is like turning a corner suddenly and finding one- 
self staring at the setting of some medieval play, which the 
stage-hands of the fourteenth century had forgotten to 
strike. There, against the sky, that was more like a cyclo- 
rama than a sky, stood Notre Dame des Doms and the Pal- 
ace of the Popes. I was far enough away to lose the effect 
of square corners—it was a mighty ensemble of spires and 
belfries—of battlements—of turrets and towers—where the 
rhythmic sweep of long lines had not been broken into by 
useless embellishments. I thought how the Church might 
be likened to a spider, carrying the makings of its lair on its 
back, weaving, as it went, a well-nigh imperishable web. 

The next three days were spent between Avignon and 
Villeneuve. I was about to take off in the direction of Taras- 
con, when a young lady with very black, insinuating eyes 
suggested that I should remain for a performance of music 
—a benefit concert. The playing of a violinist who had won 
prizes in the past would be the principal attraction. He 
would play on a very fine old violin loaned to him for the 
performance. 

The effect upon me was inexplicable—it may have been 
the sheer beauty of the Cesar Franck Sonata—it may have 
been the summed-up effect of my three days spent in the 
faded splendor of medieval cities. It was most possibly be- 


SINGING SOLDIERS 149 


cause the violinist had found out how to play. The war had 
taught him to give up playing notes—he was translating 
ideas. He paused a long time before he began to play— 
then I heard phrases of music like the sighing of the wind 
through snow-encrusted pines—sobbing tones, echoing, an- 
swering—faintly blending with the tone of the piano—swirl- 
ing—spinning—disappearing. I closed my eyes, that I 
might listen more closely. 

My imagination bridged the six hundred years between 
the Avignon of to-day and the Avignon of the popes. I saw 
the pageantry of the fourteenth century—Phillip the Fair, 
King of France—the two popes named Clement—Pope John, 
the shoemaker’s son—Benedict—Innocent—Urban—and, 
finally, Gregory, who carried the Holy See back to Rome. 

There was a pause—the violinist tuned—the music con- 
tinued. He was playing a more virile movement now. In 
my imagination there were shell-swept villages, jagged build- 
ings, limbless trees, rutted roads plainly showing the deeply 
marked tracks of caterpillar wheels—a group of crosses in a 
poppy-skirted grain-field. From one of the crosses hangs an 
olive-drab helmet. My eyes were full of twilight, but my 
soul was sailing in a fairy-ship—a fairy-ship made of catgut, 
curly maple, ebony, and horsehair. I knew that divine fin- 
gers were racing to catch each quirk and turn of a far diviner 
pen. I felt myself sinking under an avalanche of exquisite 
sounds. 

As I dusted the twilight from my eyes, I began to see the 
men who made a part of this supreme expression—John 
Sebastian Bach, who gave us the tempered scale; an Italian 
fiddle-maker, perhaps the fiddle-maker of Cremona; Paga- 
nini, who raised the art of fiddle-playing to the task of a god; 
Eugene Ysaye, for whom the sonata had been written; a 


150 SINGING SOLDIERS 


soldier, who had discovered the divinity of expression, a 
soldier in the costume of an artilleryman; and a modest lit- 
tle man who had objectified his dreams into a most glorious 
sonata—Cesar Franck. 

I spent the remainder of that magical night wandering 
about—indulging myself in great deep breaths of the per- 
fume-laden night air, listening to the silken rustle of young 
cypress and willow leaves—listening to the voice of the 
night-bird, as he confided his tale to the sleepy-eyed, dew- 
heavy flowers. For Provence is the land of the nightingale. 

Passing through Tarascon, Beaucaire, Arles, Montmajor, 
les Beaux, and Orange was like walking in a dream. My 
two weeks had nearly expired. Time had been overbalanced 
by the legends of the Courts of Love, Good King René, Au- 
cassin and Nicolette. I had sat in Roman arenas and rubbed 
shoulders with some beautiful yesterdays. 

At Vienne (a small town, not far from Lyon) I made my 
last stop. It was long past dark when I arrived at the rail- 
way-station to inquire about trains going north. On the 
dimly lighted platform I saw a group of soldiers. The fact 
that I was without the law (being out of uniform and hav- 
ing only a three-day pass) had led me to avoid the military. 
Would it be possible that I would be detected so near the 
end of my journey! I stood in the darkest place I could find 
and waited. 

“Yes, and he wuz black. An’ he wuz soldierin’ like we is. 
How come he cou’nt compree our parlez-vous ?” 

I was safe. They were American negro soldiers, who had 
lost their way. For fear they should recognize me, I talked 
as little as possible and made my English sound as French 
as I knew how. They took me for a guide who had learned 
a smattering of English, in order to profit by the business of 


SINGING SOLDIERS ISI 


travelling Americans after the war. The negroes had in- 
tended to go to St. Etienne. A French negro (who, of course, 
could not understand one word of English) had advised them 
to get off ten kilometres too soon. 

“An’ boy, I’ll write my name on dat African, ef ever I 
sees "im agin.” 

“No, you won’t write yo’ name on ‘im. Hugh-ugh! Not 
unless he gits palsy er St. Peter’s two-step all of a sudden- 
like, an’ can’t whip out dat blade he wuz a totin’. Why, lad, 
did you see his corn-knife? Can’t you see dat African bein’ 
a nasty bastard when he goes to swingin’ dat blade promis- 
cuous ?”’ 

The station-agent could not be found, but a grizzled old 
fellow who seemed to be the guard over the freight and 
baggage-house told me that a train would pass about mid- 
night, and it would make connections with the line running 
to St. Etienne. The black men were pacified by the news 
of another train. One of them, a burly, heavy-set fellow, 
sang out on the night air: 

Roll, Jordan, roll—roll, Jordan, roll— 
Soldier, you'll be called on, 

To shake that thing you're settin’ on, 
Dey’s a battle bein’ fought in de Argonne, 
Roll, Jordan, roll. 

“Say, Elephant Iron, you’d bes’ pipe down. It’s time mos’ 
gentry is thinkin’ more ‘bout sleepin’ dan singin’. If you 
must sing, keep it down a bit. Whar’ you headin’ fur, Mr. 
French Man ?”’ 

“Moi? Je vais a Lyon.’ 

“Oh, you a goin’ to Lyon! We is powerful obliged to you 
fur findin’ out ’bout de train. I can’t talk enough French 
to tell you, but you compree, we merci you a lot.” 


152 SINGING SOLDIERS 


I almost said something like “Oh, don’t mention it,” 
which would have been fatal. Elephant Iron (so named, no 
doubt, from the deep wrinkle in the side of his face), was at 
it again— 


Roll, Jordan, calleerout Jordan, roll— 
Pastor, you'll be called on— 
To help some soldier pass on, 


’Cause he’s never goin’ to fight in de Argonne, 
Roll, Jordan, roll. 


The others joined in, a few at a time, until the ensemble 
reminded me of a hay-wagon load of merrymakers returning 
from a day in the country. They were singing, not because 
they wanted to, but rather because they couldn’t keep from 
it. Their spokesman (who appeared to be the leading spirit) 
took up a song that I knew at once to be a camp-meeting 
tune from the States. The first verse was sung so softly I 
missed the words—the refrain came out more clearly. 


Pray for forgiveness, pray for forgiveness— 
Pray for forgiveness— 
Dat’s all de po’ black sinner can do. 


The remainder of the song was easily taken down. The 
melancholy manner of their singing touched me. Had for- 
tune favored these colored men with a musical education ? 
If ten per cent of them had been through grammar-school, 
fortune had smiled, indeed. Yet here was an unaffected 
musical performance that more than compared with the 
violin-playing I had heard in Avignon. If those colored boys 
had known that I understood them and was at that moment 
writing down their song, they might have gone to showing 


SINGING SOLDIERS | 153 


This is the song Elephant Iron sang. 


ROLL, JORDAN, ROLL 
ARRANGED BY J. J. N. 


fe 


Roll, Jordan, roll. Roll, Jordan, roll. Soldier, you'll be calledon To 


ee a eT a wee fe Pes eS 
FEO) 2 I a a As et SE (PN 
‘(60h LE al a a ce =. a -—§ 2 ek, Be 
A a i i AL NN FA en Fea A 
aaa - Vw 
hay aay oa ERG SEER WE STS 
{C-otse7s 2 |_| tz od oo ane poe te oes 
ry of SA a 2 ed Ps a RNC ~~ NL STR ND 
ere eS SES : 
Ko 
"ae t a a NNT 
Ay tty -—e —+}—e—_ 6 4-4 5 —_ 
am = 5 D i ——"—-@- ry 
pe ee ee ee S| 


shake that thing your sit-tin’ on. There’s a bat-tle be - in’ 


154 SINGING SOLDIERS 


off, as I had seen others do so often. But I’d caught them, 
for once, unawares. 


Debil works by night and by day— 

But de blood of de Lamb will wash yo’ sins away, 
If you’ll pray for forgiveness, pray for forgiveness— 
Pray for forgiveness, 

Dat’s all de poor black sinner can do. 


Why will the negro, who is thought of as a happy person, 
revert to such sad ideas in his singing! The negro has no 
so-called love-songs. He adopts musical motifs from the 
whites near at hand and energizes them with the yearnings 
of his soul. Some folks have said that the negro finds hap- 
piness through self-commiseration. This is not altogether 
true. The constant recurring note of sadness in the music 
of the black man is like the ripple of a stream of water run- 
ning around a rock—the water being his thought-stream— 
the rock, suppression. 

In Paris the Peace Conference was in session. Nations, 
not having found out that “thought” is the only causative 
power in the universe, were trying to bring about peace by 
treaties. They were preparing a mixture known as the 
“safety of nations.”’ They would apply this mixture with a 
wide brush. Next spring the early rains would wash the 
mixture off and a new batch would have to be mixed and 
applied. How far away all this seemed! I was listening to 
the singing of angels. 


Night comes out when de sun goes down— 
But de poor black sinner has to wander around 
An’ pray for forgiveness, pray for forgiveness, 
Pray for forgiveness— 

Dat’s all de poor black sinner can do. 


SINGING SOLDIERS 156 


Sarajevo—the Dardanelles—the freedom of the seas—the 
Bagdad Railway—the security of lesser nations—how far 
away all that seemed! President Wilson knew that war 
came from the inner emotions of man—that nations had to 
think peace before they could objectify it into reality. Cle- 
menceau and Lloyd George knew that peace was not an ex- 
ternal something, dependent on silly political rivalries. And 
Cardinal Mercier (a man sent of God if ever there was one) 
had made this thought the basis of one of his immortal utter- 
ances. But the nations wanted signed documents. There- 
fore the treaty. 


Oh, de mule he can bray and de whippoorwill can sing— 
But de poor black sinner can’t do a thing, 

But pray for forgiveness, pray for forgiveness— 

Pray for forgiveness— 

Dat’s all de poor black sinner can do. 


So—in Paris the Peace Conference held forth. The dele- 
gates were stringing out the conferences. They were prac- 
tising the old diplomatic trick of keeping the world on the 
threshold of hope—not depending on the gratitude of the 
boorish constituents—because hope has an excellent mem- 
ory—while gratitude has none at all. 

And all the while, the cafés in Montmartre were full of 
intoxicated American news-writers—news-writers, secreta- 
ries, stenographers, and adventurers—loud-mouthed Amer- 
icans showing the French how to spend their evenings. In 
the Champs Elysées olive-drab limousines whizzed by—they 
carried ladies and gentlemen in evening dress—olive-drab 
staff-cars, whizzing by soldiers and civilians on foot—sol- 
diers and civilians with vague feelings of unrest. How far 
away all this seemed! 


156 SINGING SOLDIERS 


The colored boys had got around to the inevitable “lone- 
some” song: 


LONG GONE 


er A Ee = de Saree. 
BIS 
y 


we comefrom And we may nev-er see home a - gain. 


. 


Oh, we’re long gone from Alabama—long gone from Georgia, 

Long gone from where we come from and we may never see 
home again. 

Home—home—home—Oh, we’re long gone from where we 
come from— 

And we may never see home again. 


Oh, de whippoorwill’s a singin’ low and de cotton’s in de 
pod— 

But many of us is goin’ to rest, beneath dis far-off sod. 

Oh, we’re long gone from Alabama, long gone from Georgia, 

Long gone from North Carolina, and we may never see home | 
again. 


A train of dimly lighted cars stopped at the station. The 
negroes were still singing (a verse I did not record) when 


SINGING SOLDIERS 157 


they climbed into a sparsely populated coach. I missed the 
train deliberately—why go back to Lyon! At least, why go 
back to-night? Turning away from the railway-station, I 
walked in the direction of some Roman ruins I had seen 
earlier in the day. A belated moon was shining—the moon 
of strawberries. Its feeble light cast fantastic shadows 
through the gently moving trees—shadows I likened to the 
ghosts of Czsar’s legions making merry, as they did on the 
eve of battle—the ghosts of Cesar’s legions, reclining on the 
tiers of a beautiful new arena, nudging one another and 
smacking their lips at the beauty of the dancing girls, in the 
first century version of the Folies Bergere. 

For it was Carnival in the Valley of the Rhone, and fancy 
had deceived me so well that I had rescued from my count- 
less score of days two delicious weeks—two weeks I had 
spent listening to the singing of the angels. 


158 SINGING SOLDIERS 


PRAY FOR FORGIVENESS 
ARRANGED BY J. J. N. 


Verse 


OE. SE 
| fF ae A IRDSICTS bs Ee aed ‘2 A “Se CNMI SE 
—S—-y —B— 4-3 + ee 
pes 


PGR Ree HE Runes ERE 
a 
De mule he can bray and de whip-por-will can sing, But de 


Sato a REET paBT Oe Een 
‘(OLE Ka SEY EE A NN TE ee 
4 = MBE. Zz 
Chorus 


poor black sin-ners can’t do a thing But pray for for - 


am. i 
7 DREN MSMR AE Nats reat ORES REMOEERNGA GUN bo 
r,wniee |G, dj eg TEE Ra” Es Se, a 
eae - MGIARITTERT NEA tik” MESA BRRMAE DW wi Cee a 
ADB SCENES - VEERRIIS “ROSMAN 60K PS , — ee “eae 
(2A Bape saemne> emonen LARK 12" bn ey 
(C-3 aoe PRE EY = WR VTE Loo 
N EER LSS FS MMBNERRREENENSER 
A SRE OS 8a 
a. 
“a feces cat ENE OO 277A WOTT TIK UNE BAN ELLweE 8 
= Se SMERIEVETOI Oe 
KD G any oat 
give - ness, pray for for- give - ness; Pray for for- 
ns RORY b A A MN Peas EN NTE MELE Coe ee ee inert 
ao ie Pang gt Sere 
Kp—s— ss} —t Pe $ \—F + 6-6-4} 16 1 
J CA, ey e 4 CA SF, 
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Fs Wa SR OY AT Oe ee 
3 <TC. 
(its Je LLANE uMYN Neda! mae 
ee SP SARL EN PERT? ae 
Gay Pe GE AER Ge 


SINGING SOLDIERS 159 


give - - ness, 


med 
ram in ei Tae a ae io 
=a =a 
Ce 


— 
CE CE Me aeRO 
Patti S 
Ur a 
ae ____@__'@ __ 
EGE LSE CARL 


dat’s 


=~ = 
= NEG bs ES en ee i 
_ es RET Par See 
os le ee Seer ae a | 
ae ee | 


all de poor black sin-ners can _ do. 


CHAPTER VII 
Ee Battle of Lyon was over the morning of July 1, 


1919g—both sides claiming a victory. . . . One Amer- 

ican had taken unto himself an American wife—a local 
Y.M.C.A. girl... . Two Americans had nearly taken 
unto themselves a French wife each. . . . A lack of birth- 
certificates halted the consummation of the Anglo-French 
nuptials until safely after train time. . . .. There were vari- 
ous rumors of other “affairs du coeur.” .. . Some of the 
fiancées had gone so far as to send the mothers of their Ameri- 
can lovers gifts of hand-made underthings—gifts which, 
after all, didn’t seem to make much of a hit with the pro- 
spective mothers-in-law. 

The souvenir-collectors among us left town with a goodly 
load of bad etchings and fake antique clay pottery.... A 
few of our boys actually carried away certificates, showing 
the completion of certain courses of study at the Université 
de Lyon. . . . Several sat back on their haunches and re- 
fused to leave town—having, perhaps, better judgment than 
they were given credit for at the time. . . . Everything con- 
sidered, it was an exciting morning—July the first, 1919. 

Five of the officers carried blank passes. . . . We might 
have filled them out for Afghanistan, Tibet, Indo-China, or 
Tahiti, and still have been within the law. . . . We were, 
in fact, supposed to be headed for the port of Brest—wher- 
ever that was . . . Brest, France . . . Camp Pontanazen, 
etc. . . . Two of us started immediately for Issoudun. . . . 


Before leaving Lyon, a certain group had planned to meet 
160 


SINGING SOLDIERS 161 


in the Central Post-Office at Brest, France, at high noon, 
July the roth. . . . This gave us a margin of nine days to 
sight-see about in France and Germany, A. W. O. L. 

At Issoudun we were received by our French friends as 
long-lost brothers—received—wined—dined and entertained 
in truly grand style. . . . We visited the flying-field. ... 
Grass had grown up in the roads. . . . The Red Cross Can- 
teen, once so full of familiar faces, was falling into ruin... . 
The canvas sides of empty airplane-hangars flapped idly in 
the breeze. . . . One heard the aimless banging of barracks- 
doors and was reminded of haunted houses. 

The doors and windows of The Plane News office were 
open. ... The wind had scattered the remains of the last 
edition a hundred metres in all directions. . . . The floor of 
the editor’s office was covered with notes, data, cancelled copy, 
proof-sheets, old editions, etc. . . . We took a few pictures 
of the graveyard and left hurriedly—in very low spirits. 

Next morning we were in Paris. . . . The same night in 
Liége. . . . July the Fourth found us in Cologne, Germany. 

. From Cologne we went to Brussels and then to Ant- 
werp, where we stopped long enough to plan an invasion 
into Holland. . . . The tale of how we coerced an American 
colonel into issuing the orders that took us to Holland twice 
in one week is a story all by itself. . . . And that Holland 
trip !—punctuated with Rembrandt, antique Spanish archi- 
tecture, gin, The Hague, inquisitions, the Queen, Schevening, 
glazed pottery, the seaside, etc., etc., etc. .. . That Hol- 
land trip was an A. W. O. L. high spot. 

The 14th of July, 1919, everybody on the Continent who 
could afford a ticket to Paris and find a place on the Champs 
Elysées watched the first real display the Parisians had 
staged since the 11th of November, 1918... . A few days 


162 SINGING SOLDIERS 


later we arrived in Brest... . Our appointment on July 
roth was, of course, long passed. . . . It happened that 
none of the others were really there, although most of them 
claimed to have been. . . . Brest was, in the language of 
the negro, “‘our last go round,” and it came near to being 
the dullest “go round” of the whole war. 

We had, with some fear and trembling, just presented our 
orders—our orders and the trumped-up passes. . . . A col- 
ored boy approached us from the kitchen of a near-by mess. 
. . . He was wearing a smile much like a slice of watermelon. 

“Hello, Lieutenant Johnston. ... How come you're 
here? . . . Boy, howdy, I knows you remembers me... 
I’m Harry ... I used to work at de Santa Fe railway- 
station.” 

He was saluting with both hands. 

“Yes, Harry, I do remember you—surely, I do.” 

“Yessir, I worked fo’ your daddy, too. . . . Off’n’on-like. 
; Course we didn’t quit friends ... nossar ... not 
"zakly.” 

“So you joined the army?” 

“Nossar, I didn’t Jjine—de man at de court-house jined 
fur me.” 

“Well, tell me, Harry, how long have you been in France ?”’ 

“Lemme see—next come July, it’ll be a year.” 

“Why, it’s already July.” 

“Sho’ nuf? It’s a year if it’s July. .. . And I been all 
over.” 

He gave the names of a dozen French villages all within 
10 kilometres of Brest. 

‘How big a camp is Brest? How many men do you sup- 
pose they have here ?” 

“Well, now, lieutenant, I just disremembers fur de mo- 


SINGING SOLDIERS 163 


ment. . . . I don’t know if dey is six thousand or six mil- 
lion. . . . Yessar, Brest is a wow of acamp ... A wow!” 

All the tours of inspection conceived in the mind of man 
could not have found out all about Brest.... It was a 
port of mysteries... . The story has been told, after a 
fashion, and will be told again. . . . The story of the stone 
barracks built by Napoleon, surrounded by a city of wooden 
barracks and tents built by the United States—the duck- 
boards over the perpetual mud-puddles—delousing and fu- 
migating plants—laundries—mess-halls—hospitals—a_war- 
brides’ * camp—the water-front—the drowsy harbor full of 
transports—the French navy-yards with their huge dry- 
docks—the warehouses full of unmarked army baggage—the 
erog-shops—the fights between sailors, military police, and 
soldiers. . . . What a grab-bag for the writers of the future ! 

We hadn’t been in Brest an hour when we were called up 
for a physical examination. . . . It looked like mosquito- 
bites. . . . The doctor was of a different opinion. 

“What are yu doin’ for the itch, lieutenant ?” 

“Why, hell, we’re scratchin’ it like everybody else.” 

“Don’t seem to doit much good, does it? I mean scratching.” 

“Well, not a hell of a lot.” 

“All right—now—er—just go over there between those 
two guards and 


* At a good safe distance from the main camp at Brest, the United States Army 
had established a so-called War-Brides’ Camp. ... It was a separate little com- 
mand within a command, hidden so well that only a few of us morbid curiosity- 
seekers ever found it... . The brides were kept segregated during the daytime, 
being permitted to entertain their respective husbands after the evening meal... . 
This was done in a little wooded section of French countryside, under the eyes of 
a sentry who walked post and tried to maintain order as nearly as possible. .. . 
Knowing American soldiers and Continental brides, one can easily imagine the 
difficulty of this assignment. . . . Female welfare workers told us some rare tales 
about the life of the war-brides inside their barracks—their scraps at meal-time— 
the smashed dishes—the hair-pullings, etc... . 


164 SINGING SOLDIERS 
The guards very obligingly led us off to the contagious 


skin-disease camp. . . . Our clothes were taken away from 
us and carefully marked. . . . Then we were shown a tent 
where an odd collection of unfortunates, stricken like our- 
selves, were playing poker, shooting craps, rubbing their 
bodies with a grease containing coarsely powdered sulphur 
—and cursing their luck generally. . . . For the next sev- 
enty-two hours we did the same. ... And then a bath. 
. . » The itch was gone. 

A laundry was operated in connection with the bath- 
house. . . . Here, from a little square window, a colored 
boy handed us our deloused, laundered, and chemically 
clean-smelling clothing. . . . As he did so, he sang: 


CLEAN CLOTHES SONG 


Cleanclothes for clean boys; Not a _ bug, not an_ itch, 


ae, 
Clean clothes for clean boys; Coot-ies gone, fleas all dead, 


piso ote 


Ev - ery - thing is clean in -= stead. Clean clothes 


for clean boys; Step up, lads, an’ git 


SINGING SOLDIERS 165 


Clean clothes for clean boys— 
Not a bug—not an itch— 
Not a louse nur any sich... . 
Clean clothes for clean boys— 
Step up, lads, and git ’em. 


Here was a boy who had invented his own working song. 
. . . Not that he did so much singing—it seemed to be more 
like the buzz of a summer-tired locust. . . . 


Clean clothes for clean boys— 
Cooties* gone—fleas dead— 
Eveything clean instead... . 
Clean clothes for clean boys— 
Step up, lads, and git ’em. 


That night there were prize-fights. . . . The preliminaries 
included a “battle-royal.” . .. It proved to be the kind of 
battle-royal I had often seen in the South—fifteen colored 
boys turned loose in the ring—each the mortal enemy of 
the other. . . . What aslugging-match that was. . . . The 
prize was 25 francs—about 4 dollars. ... As we left the 
ringside, the voice of a colored boy raised itself above 
the noise of the crowd: 

“Not me—nossar—not dis chicken. . . . I won’t git my- 
self cooled fur nobody’s 25 francs. ... Nossar—not 
nie: 

But the Northern Pacific, the Cap Finistéere, the Zeppelin, 
and other seagoing tugs were in the harbor.... The 
Northern Pacific drew so little water that she could be 


* Some boys were never bothered by lice, cooties, or other vermin. . . . Others 
could find a louse or a flea most any time—particularly a flea. ... We had in 
our outfit at one time a lad known as “dumb John”—(he had such a dumb look 
on his face, one could see it in the dark)—who never failed to find a flea whenever 
he wanted to.... 


166 SINGING SOLDIERS 
brought up ’longside. . . . The others had to stand off 500 


metres or so in the deeper water of the harbor. 

Gangs of stevedores had been working far into the night, 
loading foot-lockers, bags, and boxes into their holds... . 
By a special permit we had been admitted to the dock on 
which the baggage-warehouse stood. . . . My friends must 
be sure their baggage went aboard (if it could be found). 
.. . A long-legged friend of mine had told me of a song the 
stevedores sometimes sang about Georgia. . . . My interest 
in baggage was only secondary. 

It was late when we arrived at the pier... . A bronzy 
looking August moon hung lopsidedly in the east... . 
Water-soaked hawsers tightened and slackened with the al- 
most imperceptible movements of the steamer.... The 
sound of metal-rubbing wood came from up forward... . 
It was a slow, rasping sound—like badly produced notes on 
a bass fiddle. 

Some sailor-men, off duty for a few hours, were loafing on 
the outboard side of the warehouse. . . . Sailor-men loaf- 
ing, singing in the unnatural cigarette-voice so often heard. 


DESTROYER SONG 


a as = 
Fa eae By bore A ee ‘> \—__»-.—- 
|_| =] sages eee ke fe ee ee a 
mt fay & ee eae EBT j- S 
ND SPREE DSS D: 


You roll and toss and pound and pitch; You 
== 


creak and sway, you son - of - a - bitch Its a 


hell of a life a-board of a de - stroy - er. 


SINGING SOLDIERS 167 


You roll and toss and pound and pitch— 
You creak and sway, you son-of-a-bitch. ... 
It’s a hell of a life aboard of a destroyer. 


Oh, we’ve heard tales of trenches told— 
Tales of cooties fierce and bold. ... 

But we’ve our bedbugs in the hold... . 
It’s a hell of a life aboard of a destroyer. 


In order to present the bedbug in a musical setting, they 
had to distort the original form of the song from four to five 
measures. ... This didn’t seem to matter at all.... 
They even repeated the bedbug-couplet to demonstrate their 
utter disregard for such a trifle as form in music. 

Turning from the bedbug, they promptly began to tell the 
real truth about “life aboard of a destroyer,’ employing 
much unprintable matter and referring to many very re- 
volting operations. . . . This was by no means the Georgia 
song—the one I had hoped to hear. . . . My partners were 
busy rummaging in great piles of baggage—I joined them 
and waited. 

A short coffin (one end had rotted off in a Q. M. store- 
house) contained most of my treasures. ... Then there 
was a bed-roll, a foot-locker, etc. . . . While we were read- 
ing the names on endless rows of ill-shapen duffle-bags and 
boxes, the stevedores changed shifts. . . . Outside it was 
“a hell of a life aboard of a destroyer”: 


Droppin’ ash-cans, that’s our game. .. . 
If we hit our own “‘subs,”’ it’s all the same— 


Oh, it’s a hell of a life aboard of a destroyer. 


An obliging sergeant pointed out a ganglin’ yellow boy 
(one who had just been relieved) as the chief singer of the 


168 SINGING SOLDIERS 


Georgia song... . With a little encouragement he sang 
the solo parts while some other members of his shift har- 
monized the refrains... . It was a “going home” song, 
one they had surely sung many times. . . . They sang it 
in a dreamy, unconfident manner—perchance it had been 
too long coming true. 


Six million soldiers—standin’ side by side... . 

Better have a mighty ship ’cause I’m sure goin’ to ride. . . . 
Back home to Georgia—Georgia . . . 

Back to my beau lover gal in Georgia. 


(The fact that there were less than two million Americans 
at the most engaged in the war didn’t seem to matter to 
this rhymster.) 


Never goin’ to eat no more army food— 

Goin’ to git myself up like a regular dark-town dude— 
Back home in Georgia—Georgia .. . 

Back to my beau lover gal in Georgia. 


Hope we’re never goin’ to have another goddam gare— 

’Cause if we do, de “drafters”? sho’ will never find me 
Chere a. 

Back home in Georgia—Georgia. .. . 

Back to my beau lover gal in Georgia. 


(In other words, if war is ever declared again, he’ll be so 
far away, it will take twenty-five cents to send him a post- 


card.) 


White folks says a slacker’s done married off my skirt— 
If this be so, I sho’ Lord will do somebody dirt... . 
Back home in Georgia—Georgia. .. . 

Back to my beau lover gal in Georgia. 


SINGING SOLDIERS 16 


9 
GEORGIA 
ARRANGED BY J. J. N. 
,y Chorus 
v, > —_——, —___ | — 2 = 2 Rey Riere-eceeeoer es coca 
oa en ee eS ee 
Geor - gia, Geor - gia, back to my beauxlov-er gal in 


Verse 
CR’ S$ Se ee ee eee | 
ie eee ea : io +—— +> iamaea © A “eee 
Ss i neg = 
Geor - gia. Six mil-lion sol - diers stand-in’ side by side; 

- ‘ 3 ieee fires Poa | eee Ee ee So Den ae, eee a 
oe | ——————— 
<o F H | a aan coe amar ma 

| _ i Rae eo 
Sm, 
£. a eee 
La \ or 2S aes ee a Pepe | Cd Fe 
ce ee eed tS eee ee eet ar amsamnaneres tos 
fas ie re ee a ST 
ee Ree ee i 12S SS ED AER WAS OER ee ee ap WS 


170 SINGING SOLDIERS 


Next morning, as we were about to leave camp for the 
last time, some one came running from the Headquarters 
building with a sheaf of orders. 


“GEORGIA” 


“Any of you men want to go to Poland? Poland—any 
officer below the rank of major—aviators preferred.” 

“You mean Poland, Pennsylvania.” 

“Aw, hell, no. ... Why go to Poland, Pennsylvania? 
No, what I’m gettin’ at is the original Poland—where they’re 
Agni 


SINGING SOLDIERS 171 


99 
° 


*““Oh, yes, where the war is. . . 

Every one paused while a silver two-franc piece spun into 
the air and landed tails up in the dust. . . . As far as I can 
tell, he may be there yet looking for some one to go to 
Poland—where the war was. ... After all, we’d been to 
almost all the really interesting places, and none of us was 
willing to give up a nice free ride on a ship like the Cap 
Finistére for the prospects of a two-by-four war in Poland. 


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